Too Scared to Ask for Help
by DivineFawn
Summary: Jack isn't as happy as he always seems. Or as he always shows, anyways. Septiplier fic. Warnings inside.
1. Chapter 1: One of Those Days

A/N: Writing this as a vent and coping piece using some plot shit that I've been going through recently. Using these two dorks as my mains bc I love them and somehow I ended up being septiplier trash oops.

Warnings: Dark themes, explicit self-harm scenes, depression, anxiety, drug use, dissociation, eating disorders.

Please enjoy my first septiplier fic, and comment. It helps to keep me going.

* * *

 **Chapter 1: One of Those Days**

Jack had just finished clicking the publish button for one of his newest video, and he sat back in his chair with a heavy sigh. He really hadn't been feeling it lately, and he was sure that it was going to show in this video. He was absolutely positive that he was going to be rolling in the worry comments soon enough.

Idly, he clicked over to tumblr to answer some asks. His inbox was flooded, and he wanted to try and answer at least a few. It was a lot easier to fake things through text and type versus in a recording of him.

The first ask was just a nice, positive comment of: _Hey Jack! Hope ur havin a great day! We all love u, so keep doin what ur doing :3._

With a small smile, Jack typed out a quick reply, using a lot of exclamation points and a smiley face to keep up his front.

The next item in his inbox was a hate comment.

He was used to these, sure, he had even made a reading your comments video responding to some of the hate he received. He really played it off in the video though, brushing off the mean comments like everyone expected him to. Except it was much harder than he made it seem.

 _ur such a stupid piece of shit y dont u go ahead and kill urself already u fuckign fag_

Jack's grip on his mouse tightened.

It was comments like these that made him pause for a moment, trying to get his breathing under control and keep his heart from pounding out of his chest.

He let out a particularly ragged breath, and just listening to the pathetic noises he made was enough for him to lose it. The tears came out rapidly, streaming down his face in thick, salty waves. Jack began to tremble, pulling his legs up and wrapping his arms around them, he buried his head on his knees. A violent sob wracked his small frame, and Jack just sat there and let it happen.

It wasn't often that this type of thing did happen, but when it hit, it hit hard. Jack would usually let these types of things build up until he broke down, which was happening now.

His breathing picked up. Jack was breathing so hard, so _loud_. The empty room was filled with his sounds of bitter anguish, and it was only amplified by the bare, empty walls surrounding him. He squeezed his eyes, trying to stop the tears, but to no avail. His entire face was wet, and he could feel the wetness accumulate on his sweatpants. He choked on his breath, finding he couldn't take it anymore.

He leapt from his chair, stumbling towards his bedroom, leaving his chair twirling sporadically behind him. Jack slammed the door open, snatching his wallet off his bedside table as he dug through it.

Sure, his wallet was an odd place to keep it, but at least he almost always had it on him. It was a dark comfort to him, knowing that if the pressure ever built up too much in the moment, he had a release on him.

This was one of those moments.

His fingers found purchase on the small, metal object, and his gut was filled with a sense of nervous anticipation. He pulled the razor blade out of his wallet, holding it in his shaking palm for a second, unsure if he was actually going to go through with it.

Filled with a sudden determination, Jack dropped his wallet and proceeded to the bathroom.

In there, he shut and locked the door behind him. He lived by himself, but his paranoia always managed to make him do unnecessary things. Once he was sure he was completely alone, just him and the sound of his pitiful sobbing echoing off the tiled walls, Jack shed his clothes. He stripped down to his boxer briefs, haphazardly throwing his shirt and sweatpants in a pile by the door.

He propped one leg up on the tub's edge, pulling up the ends of his briefs, revealing a myriad of scars. Some were old, nothing but faded white lines, others a darker, angry red, and some of the fresher ones, scabbed over, still healing.

Through his tears, Jack lined up the edge of the blade to a spot mostly covered by the older white lines. He turned his head away as he swiped the blade across his thigh. No matter how many times he did it, he could never stand to watch as he mutilated his body. His thigh erupted in a brief, fiery pain, which dulled as the scarlet liquid oozed out of the wound.

Jack let out another sob. He was turning to _this_ again. He promised himself he wouldn't, but deep down he knew that he wouldn't be able to stay clean.

Rearing himself up again, Jack slid the razor against his leg again, this time repeating the motion several times in quick succession. Jack cried out momentarily from the pain, but settled down as he saw the blood. It flowed steadily, carving a path down his hairy chicken legs. Jack had to stick his leg in the tub to prevent bleeding everywhere as little droplets spotted the porcelain edge.

Seven.

That's how many he ended up doing.

By now, Jack had settled down enough to breathe normally again. His eyes were still moist as he watched with rapt attention as the blood made bright red streaks down his leg.

After a while of watching the blood and counting his heartbeat, Jack set the razor down on the shelf and grabbed some toilet paper. He had read somewhere online that using toilet paper to clean up cuts wasn't good, since the fibers peel off easily and stick to the wound, but at the moment Jack really didn't give a fuck.

He didn't care that he had given in to temptation yet again, scarring and mutilating his body even further. He just didn't care.

Gripping a bundle of toilet paper, Jack began wiping away the blood. It smeared, the excessive amount making it more than a little difficult to clean. The blood flowed from the cuts as quickly as he wiped it away, and with a huff of irritation Jack realized that he wasn't getting anywhere with this method of cleaning.

He dropped the reddened tissue paper into the toilet, and carefully removed his briefs as he stepped into the shower. The bottom of the tub was speckled with the scarlet liquid, and Jack braced himself on the tile wall as he lost his footing. Turning on the tap, Jack let the freezing water pierce his skin. He jumped at the icy contact, relaxing again as the water began to heat up. His blood mixed with the water, muddying it thoroughly before disappearing down the drain.

Jack heaved a sigh of relief. The warmth of the water cascading across his pale skin came as a comfort, and Jack smiled numbly. The water stung as it splashed into his cuts, and Jack let out a humorless laugh. Somehow, this kind of event was becoming a normal occurrence.

He rubbed across his cuts, the red liquid gathering on his palm and looking almost pink under the flourescent lights. The sharp smell of iron assaulted his senses, and Jack almost gagged. Scrunching his nose, Jack began to wipe away the blood earnestly, trying to get it off. More drops fell from his leg, joining the reddened water at his feet before it swirled away and down the drain.

Jack thought briefly of his fans, and how much he would be letting them down should they know of what he does behind closed doors.

But just couldn't do it sometimes.

Sometimes everything just became too much. A particular hate comment or other upsetting event would trigger the waterworks, and Jack would have to cut to find relief, to find some sense of being. He couldn't process his emotions properly, so instead he expressed them through adding new lines to his skin.

He absolutely couldn't let anyone know.

He had too many fans, and too many close friends at this point. He couldn't disappoint them. He couldn't let them know that the loud, energetic, upbeat Jack that they all knew and loved was nothing but a front, hiding his raw pain and desperation. He was scared. Terrified, even. No matter what, Jack couldn't burden them with his problems. He was getting medicine. He would be fine. He would make it through this, and be the Jack that everyone knew.

A familiar, melodic ringing cut through Jack's thoughts, startling him as he looked around wildly.

It was the sound of a Skype call.

Someone was calling him.

Jack scrambled for the tap, switching it off, and hopped out of the tub. He snatched up a black towel –the black perfect for hiding stains– and wrapped it around his waist. He gave himself a careful pat down, holding the dark cloth to his left thigh where he knew he was still bleeding. Jack then grabbed another towel, drying off his upper body before throwing on his longsleeved shirt from earlier.

The ring from his computer in the other room ceased abruptly, and Jack stilled.

He wasn't sure why he was rushing to get to the call. Frowning slightly, Jack unlocked the door and limped slowly to his recording room. Sitting back down in his swivel chair, Jack was mindful of the towel still concealing his lower half, and more importantly, his cuts.

Just as Jack was clicking on his Skype icon, the ringing started up again.

It was Mark.

* * *

In no way do I condone the act of self harm. I'm merely writing this using SOME of my own experiences. If you're in a similar situation, please reach out for help. It is hard, I know. Just be careful who you reach out to. If you know that parents/teachers/adults can't get you the help you need, even talking to a friend can make a big difference.

I'm always willing to talk if you need it. Send me a PM if you want. Please contact me if you are in a bad place. I can be here for you.

Stay safe, lovlies.


	2. Chapter 2: Skype Calls are Great!

**Chapter 2: Skype Calls are Great!**

Jack's finger hesitated on the answer button.

Did he really want to talk to Mark right now? Was he even up to it? He had barely gotten through his most recent episode, having been interrupted near the end. So did he really have the strength to answer a video call from Mark, of all people? Mark Fischbach, the kind and caring and strong and handsome…

Snapping out of his thoughts, Jack steeled himself and clicked the little green icon. Immediately, his desktop started loading the video feed, and a few seconds later Mark's face appeared on his screen.

"Hey, Jackaboy!" Mark greeted brightly. His bright red hair was a floofy mess, and Jack smiled at the sight. He could do this. He could be normal, for Mark.

"Hey Markimoo," Jack replied, voice rough and cracking a bit from the earlier crying. Jack winced, and Mark raised a brow. "Why did you call?"

Jack mentally slapped himself. He didn't mean to sound so demanding or rude.

"What, I can't call my best friend? Rude," Mark said exasperatedly. Jack could tell he was joking by his tone, but still felt a little stab of guilt.

"I mean," Jack backtracked quickly. "What's up?"

"Just wanted to check in with you. See what's new," Mark shrugged, but his brown eyes seemed guarded, hiding a deeper meaning. "I guess you were in the shower?"

Jack froze. "Huh?"

Mark gestured to his hair. "Your hair's still wet."

Jack reached up and touched his toxic green locks, finding them still damp. "Oh! Oh yeah, sorry. That's why I was late to the call," he answered sheepishly. For some reason, he feared that Mark knew what he was doing in the shower. An impossible fear, but a fear nonetheless.

"Alright, I guess I'll forgive you _this_ time," Mark said in a teasing tone, folding his toned arms across his chest –not that Jack was staring– "since you have such a good excuse for not answering my call."

Jack laughed, but it sounded forced. He hoped that Mark couldn't tell as easily as Jack could.

Their conversation went on, Mark mostly leading as he blabbered on about stuff going on in his life, telling Jack about how cute and crazy Chica was, or about the time when Matt fell in the pool last week. Jack laughed, this time sounding much more natural. He offered witty replies to Mark, glad to fall into the usual routine of their friendly banter. It was good to take a step back from everything, from YouTube, from his secret self-harm, and just relax and chat with a friend. Even if he was still bleeding through the towel wrapped around his waist and he really needed to bandage it up, Jack was genuinely happy to talk to Mark.

Eventually, as things usually did, their conversation drifted back to YouTube.

"You know, I've been getting some messages from fans telling me they're worried about you."

Jack's heart dropped. "Oh, yeah?" He asked, voice timid. He managed to force out, "What did they say?"

Mark was watching him carefully, his signature happy smile gone. Jack could tell he was serious. "They said that you've lost some of your chipper attitude in your most recent videos." He paused, waiting for Jack to reply.

His heart felt like it was about to leap from his chest. Jack grabbed his left thigh, feeling the sticky wetness through the towel. "Oh."

Mark nodded. "So I went and watched your videos from the past few days," he continued, eyeing Jack like a hawk.

"A-and?" Jack couldn't keep his voice from cracking. He licked his lips nervously.

Jack felt like those eyes were staring right through him, piercing his very being. "And I agree with them. You seem a lot more down… Is everything okay, Seán?"

Shit. Shit shit shitty _shit_. Mark was sitting there, waiting for a response to a serious question, and here Jack was sweating bullets. He could blame the sweat as water droplets from his earlier 'shower', but that wasn't the most pressing matter at hand.

Jack's mind raced as he tried to think of a reply. Mark used his real name, which meant he wasn't fucking around. What could Jack possibly say to something like that?

His grip on his thigh tightened, feeling that sickly warmth ooze through the soaked towel. His heartbeat was out of control, if Jack thought it was fast before then it was absolutely going nuts now. His mouth felt dry, his tongue like sandpaper. He wasn't sure that he could reply if he wanted to. Not that he wanted to, more like _had_ to–

"Jack?"

Mark's deep timbre voice cut through his foggy mind, registering with Jack that he had remained silent for far too long.

He sucked in a sharp breath and almost choked. Quickly he snatched up his water bottle he kept on the side for when he was recording and gulped it down greedily. The lukewarm water was a blessing on his dry throat, and by taking time drinking he tried to form what to say to Mark.

Setting the now empty bottle down on the side, Jack cleared his throat.

"You okay?" Mark asked worriedly. His face was contorted in an uneasy frown.

"Fine," Jack coughed, practically gasping for air. "Just fine. Uhh, where were we?"

Mark deadpanned. "Are you alright, Seán?"

Hearing Mark say his name in that low tone of his sent a shiver down Jack's spine. He ignored it in favour of finally replying. "I, uh– yeah. I'm alright. Just havn't been sleepin' well lately, 's all." Jack tried to keep his tone level, and failed, his accent coming out thick with nerves. What he said wasn't exactly a lie, since Jack actually had been having trouble sleeping recently, he just wasn't telling Mark everything. Who knows what Mark would do if he knew… "Sorry to worry you all."

Mark stayed quiet for a moment, obviously processing the new information. Jack waited anxiously, bouncing his uninjured leg incessantly. Finally, Mark let out a sigh. "I'm glad that's all then," he said slowly, words twisting Jack's heart.

Jack gave a wry smile. "You don't havta worry about me, I can take care o' myself."

After a moment of hesitation, Mark returned the smile. "I know. I just can't help but worry about you, though."

Jack's heartbeat picked up again. What did Mark mean by that? He opened his mouth to respond, but the feeling of a warm wetness dripping down his calf made him freeze. He needed to go and bandage himself up, and _now_. "I, I-I need to go. I have some stuff to take care of," he said hurriedly, trying to speed things along.

Mark's brows furrowed. "I know I'm going to sound like a broken record, but is everything okay?"

With a jagged nod, Jack dismissed his friend's worries as he gave a vague reply. "Jus' work that needs doing. I'll talk to ya later."

"Okay… Just promise to call if you need anything," Mark relented, leaning back in his chair in a defeated manner. "And I mean anything."

"Thanks, Mark, bye." Jack quickly clicked the end call button before anything could be said further. He let out a heavy sigh, both in relief and dread. Relief from managing that Skype call with Mark, and dread for what he was going to have to do next.


	3. Chapter 3: Dph Dreams

Sorry for how late this chapter is. I've been feeling like shit for the past couple weeks and couldn't even get out of bed some days. Regardless, hope you enjoy. And don't do drugs kids.

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Chapter 3: Dph Dreams

Jack stared blankly at his new cuts, which were just a bit deeper than his previous "paper cuts". He had nearly cut completely through the dermis this time. Any further and he would have reached the fat. His fingers brushed over the irritated edges, gathering the blood that budded up slowly. His pale blue eyes fixated on his fingertips, painted a light red he was overly familiar with.

He sighed.

The Skype call with Mark had made him feel more guilty than ever. Of course he was always guilty when he hurt himself, but it wasn't ever this bad. His heart clenched in his chest uncomfortably. The thought of letting Mark down made his gut swirl with anxiety.

He glanced at the clock. It was about dinner time, but rather than eating, Jack would much rather throw up. He hadn't eaten anything that day, but the recent events made him sick to his stomach. He was sure that if he had tried to vomit, nothing but bile would come up.

Grabbing some more toilet paper and wiping down his thigh one last time, Jack adjusted his pants and slipped his sweatpants on. He was out of bandaids; Jack would have to go buy more in the morning. In the meantime, he didn't mind bleeding through his sweatpants. They were old, faded, used. It wouldn't upset him if they were ruined.

Jack wandered out into the kitchen, getting himself a cup of water. That was probably the only thing he could stomach at the moment. The cool liquid felt incredible on his throat, and Jack relished in the feeling.

Another time check told Jack that he needed to take his meds. He pulled the four different bottles out of his cabinet and lined them up. Bupropion, 150mg. Buspirone, 10 mg. Alprazolam, 0.5mg. Fluoxetine, 20 mg.

He hated that he had to take so many medicines. Why couldn't he just take one or two? The ones that he was on didn't even feel like they were helping. Maybe a bit, but not much. Jack had another appointment with his doctor next week to check up on his meds to see if any dosages needed to be raised or lowered, so he could ask his doctor about them then.

Opening the Bupropion, Jack downed his pill. This was the only one he had to take at night, but as Jack set the bottle back down with the others, intrusive thoughts filled his mind.

 _Why not just take them all?_

Jack shook his head. The last thing he wanted to do was overdose on his fucking antidepressants.

Still, the thought lingered.

He went to his bedroom, grabbing his personal laptop and settling on his bed as he decided to pass the time by scrolling through his twitter comments.

 _"JACK! Are you okay? We're worried for you. #supportjack"_

 _"does anyone know if Jack_Septic_Eye is ok?"_

 _"what the fuck jack._ i _subbed for you to be funny and now_ youre _just boring. what a_ let down _."_

 _"Even if Jack hasn't been as upbeat, we're still here for you! #supportjack"_

Was he some kind of masochist? Reading those all those tweets only made him feel worse. And it seemed like the hashtag "supportjack" was a thing now. Fucking fantastic.

He wanted to make a tweet to say that _yes,_ he was indeed fine, but his fingers weren't working properly. His eyes focused and unfocused on the screen. He felt completely numb. The edges of his lips lifted in a wry smile as Jack threw his head back and laughed. So he was going to dissociate now?

"Great!" He yelled aloud to the empty room.

He layed in bed, feeling as if he were floating. He closed his eyes and sighed for the umpteenth time that day. Might as well get comfortable, this was going to take a while.

As he finally regained the sensations in his fingertips, Jack formed fists at his side. He hated dissociating. He lost all concept of time and feeling, and just layed there like a vegetable. This time he had lost over two hours.

Frankly, he was pissed off. If he was going to waste time dissociating, he could waste time doing more fun things. Angrily he sat up in bed and headed towards the kitchen, rummaging through the cabinets. With a huff of nervous relief, Jack pulled out the bottle of Benadryl. Diphenhydramine. Dph. He had read somewhere that if he took enough of this, he could hallucinate.

He wondered how many he should take, but with a shrug of insouciance Jack popped the cap and poured himself a handful of the small pink pills. He rolled them around in his hand for a moment, the bright pink reminding him of classic bubblegum, before he shoved them all in his mouth. Turning the faucet on, Jack stuck his head under the flow of water and gulped it down, nearly choking due to the number of pills in his mouth.

Somehow, Jack finally managed to swallow the pills. He wiped his face with the back of his trembling hand and glanced at the clock again, a nervous habit. Just past 11pm. It would kick in in about half an hour.

Jack staggered back to his bedroom, already feeling exhausted and sore from his earlier cutting spree. He lay on his bed once more, staring blankly at the popcorn textured ceiling. His overhead fan spun slowly, making an annoying humming noise. Scoffing in satirical annoyance, Jack grabbed his laptop again and scrolled through his twitter feed. Nothing particular was catching his interest, and rather than feeling high, Jack only felt more tired.

Just when Jack was about to call it quits and go to bed for the night, the text on his screen started moving around.

"Wot the fuck?" Jack wasn't sure if he actually said that out loud, or just thought it. He tried typing but all the letters were jumbled and didn't make any sense.

Turning his head to the cream colored walls, Jack was startled to see them _breathing_. They were the same boring color as always, just moving in and out in the rhythmic way of someone breathing.

Jack smiled. This could definitely get interesting.

Except that now he really needed to pee.

He stumbled out of bed, his covers catching on his lower half, and Jack smacked down on the floor. He couldn't even feel the pain. He laughed, loud and boisterous, rolling around on his carpeted floors and enjoying the feel of the little fibers on his skin.

Laughter dying down, Jack finally got up. In the hall, he saw a dark, shadowy figure that seemed to flicker in and out of existence. Jack waved.

Giant spider legs sprouted from underneath his bathroom door, which gave him a start. They were huge, brown, and so fuzzy that Jack just wanted to reach out and touch the squirming legs. As his fingers neared them, they withdrew back underneath the door. Shrugging, Jack proceeded to the bathroom.

When he was washing his hands, Jack was amazed by how the water felt. It was so beautiful, so special. Smiling, Jack splashed around for a bit until he heard a familiar noise.

He was getting another Skype call, and Jack had an inkling on who it might be.


	4. Chapter 4: Everything's Fine!

WOAH look at me holy shit I wrote another chapter so quick damn kudos to me. ;) Also I like how sarcastic exclamation points can be.  
Enjoy and please leave me feedback~

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 **Chapter 4: Everything's Fine!**

Jack stared, entranced by the image before him. It was his best friend, sure, but something about it was different. That 'something' turned out to be little spiders running all over the other man's body. Jack took a sharp intake of breath. Just looking at the swarm of those eight-legged creatures was enough to make his own skin crawl in discomfort.

"Jack?"

He blinked. "Huh?"

Mark's eyes narrowed. The spiders continued their journey across his body. "Have you been listening to a word I've been saying?"

The baby spiders seemed to abandon Mark then, crawling _through_ the screen and onto his desk. His bright blue eyes were glued to them as they scattered across his workspace. "Holy fuck."

"Jack?" Mark said worriedly.

Ignoring the arachnids for a moment, Jack looked up and met his friend's gaze. "Yeah?" He finally asked.

"I said, what was that tweet about?"

"What tweet?" The spiders started lumping together, forming several bigger spiders. They jumped off his desk and scurried out the door. Jack whipped around in his chair, eyes chasing their receding forms.

"What are you looking at?" Mark's voice sounded from the screen behind him.

The spiders were gone, seeming to have disappeared into his bedroom. That shadowy figure from earlier was back, standing right in the doorway. Its body was like television static, constantly moving and shifting. It got closer every time it flickered.

As Jack finally turned back around, Mark fixed him with a serious look. "Your tweet. Do you know what I'm talking about?"

"No?" Jack raised a brow. Yeah, he had been on twitter earlier, but he hadn't posted anything. At least, he didn't think so…

"Well, not half an hour ago, you posted something on twitter. It was nothing but gibberish, random letters. What the hell was that all about?"

Jack raised his arms in the classic "I don't know" pose. He had no recollection of posting anything. Mark didn't seem satisfied with his answer. "I'm serious, Jack. I'm getting so many messages from people, who are all worried about you. Are you– are you fucking _high?"_

Having droned out Mark's blabber, Jack had become more focused on that ever-shifting figure. It was right by his side now, and his eyes were trained on its face, trying to make out some kind of features. The sound of Mark shouting his name definitely caught his attention. He turned back to the screen. Mark's brows were drawn downwards, lips pressed in a thin, irritated line. "What?" He repeated.

Mark sighed and leaned back in his chair. "What the fuck, Seán? What the hell did you take?"

Jack shrugged again, this time giggling. It was hard to understand what Mark was trying to say, so it was just easier to laugh.

"This isn't a fucking _game_ , Jack. This is some serious shit." Mark's eyes searched his face for an answer, but Jack merely turned away to look at the figure again. "Do you have any idea how worried your fans are? Do you even know how worried _I_ am about you?"

"Don't worry, Mark," Jack said, eyeing the figure suspiciously as its hand reached out towards his shoulder. "Everything's fiiiiiinnneeeeeeee." The flickering hand made contact with his body, and his shoulder tingled where it touched as though he had gotten a little static electricity shock. Weird.

Mark sighed. "This is getting nowhere. I'll talk to you later."

The little bloop sounded from his computer, and when Jack turned to see what happened, Mark's face was gone from the screen. It seems he hung up on Jack. Jack frowned but ultimately shrugged again.

He felt the need to pee again, so Jack got up to relieve his bladder. The halls moved in and out on either side of him as he walked through. Thankfully the giant spider wasn't in his room or bathroom, nor the several smaller ones, so he was able to go no problem. A wave of absolute exhaustion rushed through him, and Jack barely made it to his bed before passing out.

* * *

His eyelids fluttered slowly as Jack woke up. He had no idea what time it was, but light was already filtering through the curtains. As he sat up in bed, an immediate feeling of nausea hit him, and Jack sprung up to go to the toilet and vomit. He coughed, eyes filling with tears as he hacked up bile and the remnants of the pills he had taken. The horrid sounds of puke hitting the water resounded through the tiled walls, surrounding him. The acrid stench of vomit circled around him, only making him gag again.

Once his stomach was finally empty, Jack flushed the toilet and sat back against the wall behind him. He brought his legs up, resting his forehead on his knees. "Damn," Jack muttered. His head hurt like a bitch. He still felt queasy, but he knew he was done throwing up for the time being. His thigh tingled uncomfortably, and Jack realized that one of his cuts had opened up.

"Fuck."

After wiping away the small droplets of blood, Jack staggered out of the bathroom and glanced at his alarm clock. It was 5:48 pm. "Shit!" Jack yelled, scrambling to action. He was late, _way_ too late. His video would never be up on time…

As he came face to face with his reflection, Jack realized what an absolute mess he was. His face was sickly pale, cheekbones sticking out unhealthily from lack of food. His eyes were red, dark bags prominent underneath. His toxic hair was sticking up in random places, greasy and unkempt. There were trace amounts of saliva and vomit all over his chin. He scrunched his nose. How the fuck was he going to be able to record a video looking like this?

 _Easy. You don't._

Jack ignored that pesky little voice and hopped in the shower, washing himself at record speed. He went through his normal morning routine as quickly as he could, and by the time Jack finally made it to his recording setup, it had only just turned 6:00.

"Okay," Jack spoke aloud, trying to rationalize his next steps. "The quickest thing I can do is a vlog. It won't take more than ten minutes to record, and I can upload it right away."

 _Except now you're going to have to face everyone and talk about how everything is fine when it isn't._

Jack slapped his cheeks, shooing the thoughts away. "Let's just get this over with."


	5. Chapter 5: Mistakes

A/N: Hi, everyone. As you might have noticed, my username changed. Due to reasons of someone I know irl finding my account, I decided to change it. I will probably be leaving it as FawnChara. Thank you for your comments of concern!

This particular chapter is really personal for me. It hits some of the things that went through my mind at one of my lowest points, as well as my actions. Literally, mistakes were made. Please enjoy.

* * *

Chapter 5: Mistakes

Finger hesitating on whether to do it or not, Jack finally clicked the publish button on YouTube. His video was a full two hours late. He was always so careful, keeping up with his schedule, never falling behind. If he ever needed to go away for trips, he would record four videos a day to prepare for the time he would be gone. But now…

And he was sure that the comments would be flying in by the thousands. In his vlog, he brought up everyone's worry and assured them that he was perfectly fine. 100% okay. That they needn't worry about him.

He pulled up his Twitter, finally seeing that the tweet Mark had been talking about. _"Wsjo i nccnt eeddf myfn gedsnf"_. That was it. It had already been favorited by 2.1k people and had 1.3k comments. Some of it was hate, talking about how Jack was probably high as fuck and tripping balls when he posted it (they weren't exactly wrong). Though the majority of the comments were people defending him, and telling him that it was okay if he needed to talk or take a break.

"Fuck." It was too late to delete that tweet. He had already made his _"Don't worry about me, folks!"_ Vlog, so that could help relieve some of his fans.

 _Some, but not enough._

Filled with a sudden anger, Jack pulled out his Wii U. Time to record a Super Mario Maker and hash out that frustration.

* * *

Jack hated doing this to himself.

His upper thighs were completely covered in scars now. There was no room left, so he had to start drifting downwards. He couldn't wear short shorts anymore, not like he really needed to with the weather in Ireland. But when he visited friends in California, Jack would have to be extra careful.

 _If you're even alive by then._

"Woah." Jack put his hand on the tiled wall to steady himself. Where the fuck had _that_ thought come from? Sure, he was depressed. Sure, he self-harmed. But did that mean he actually wanted to die? And if he did, how would he even do it?

"I could just slit my wrists," Jack said to the empty bathroom. He blamed YouTube for making him talk to himself. "Or I could overdose." He thought back to the pills in his cabinet. He wasn't sure how many he should take, or what kind, but Jack knew that if he took them all, it would probably do it.

Adding another cut to his lower thigh now, Jack imagined what it would be like if he were gone. He was already upsetting so many fans just by not being as loud or 'happy' like always. They would probably be sad if he were dead. "They'll get over me." Jack brought the razor down with greater force. The skin split like butter under the metal, blood oozing out after a moment.

"My friends would be sad." Then again, Jack hadn't really known them that long. The Grumps, Felix, Ken, Mark… Jack had started out as nothing more than an Irish fanboy with a dream. "They'll get over me too." Jack brought the blade down in the same spot, cutting it even deeper. The blood came out in a much greater amount.

"My family would be sad." But Jack had a large enough family that his parents wouldn't grieve too much over one lost son. They still had Jack's brothers and sisters to look after. "They'll get over me." Hands shaking, Jack sliced down hard once more in the same spot.

His thigh split wide open and Jack froze.

The blood spurted immediately, coming out in large gushes and covering everything around him. It began to gather on the carpet beneath him, dark scarlet puddles staining the blue rug. His wound was wide, much wider than any before it. He could see it. He could see the layer of fat that he had always heard about, but never reached from any of his previous cuts. It was disgusting.

Puffy and yellow, Jack felt like vomiting just looking at it. The yellow was quickly drowned in a fresh layer of blood. It rushed down his leg, lining and streaking it with red.

There was _so much_ blood.

Even on bad days when Jack had made over thirty cuts, none of them had bled this much. The blade fell from his shaking hands, making a ripple in the puddle it landed in. Quickly Jack reached for the toilet paper, bunching it up and applying pressure to his wound. He held it there, trying to take deep, steady breaths to keep from having a panic attack.

Once he got his breathing a tad bit more under control, Jack lifted the tissue to see the wound. It wasn't very long, but it was pretty deep. The very center of the wound darkened as the blood pooled up in it. Almost as soon as Jack had lifted his makeshift bandage, the blood was back and running down his leg again.

"Shit. Shit. _Shit."_

His breathing picked up again, his hands trembling even worse than before. He knew enough about cutting to know that he needed stitches for this. There was no other way…

"They're gonna fuckin' lock me up," Jack whispered, breathless. "They're gonna stick me in the looney bin." He put more pressure on his wound, propping his leg up on the tub and leaning on it. He couldn't deal with being hospitalized. He just _couldn't._

Jack's eyes filled with tears.

What the hell had he been about to do?

Was he actually going to kill himself, and leave everything behind?

 _No._

He choked out a sob, squeezing his thigh with both hands now. His hands were covered in blood, and as Jack looked around, vision blurred from his tears, he noticed that there was literally blood everywhere. He was standing in puddles of it, socks soaked with the warm liquid. There was even some dripping down his wall, a product of the spray from the final cut.

"What the fuck am I doing?" Jack tried laughing, but it came out as nothing more than a wheeze.

Jack grabbed some supplies from the cabinet: gauze, a gauze bandage, and new tissue paper. He wiped away as much blood as he could before applying the large band-aid. He finished by wrapping the entire area in the gauze. Though it wasn't the sticky type of gauze that you get in hospitals, so as an extra precaution to apply more pressure and make sure it stayed in place, Jack wrapped an Ace bandage around it.

The small room was filled with the sounds of his heavy, uneasy breathing. He was shaking like a leaf, and Jack had to brace himself against the wall again for support. He lowered his leg from the tub, testing out if he could put pressure on it. As Jack realized he could still stand and walk despite his wound, he began the large task of cleaning up. The bathroom was an absolute mess, and Jack was just so _tired._

Deciding _'fuck it, I'll clean it later'_ , Jack draped a towel over the blood on the ground, took off his socks, washed his hands to rid the blood, and limped to the kitchen to take his meds.

As he was swallowing his pill, Jack's eyes drifted yet again to his Benadryl. Other than Mark finding out he was high and posting on Twitter, his trip had actually been pretty fun. The spiders were a little scary, but it was cool how real everything seemed. Shrugging, Jack popped the cap on that and poured a bunch of pills down his throat. He took a huge swig of water from his bottle, swallowing the little pink painkillers.

His thighs burned from his earlier cutting session, the deepest one flaring most prominently in pain. Just as Jack was about to sit down and wait for the dph to kick in, a knock sounded on the door. Jack frowned. It past 11pm, who the hell would be at his door at this hour?

Jack considered leaving it, figuring the person would go away until the knocking struck again. It was quicker, appearing more urgent this time. Sighing, Jack hobbled towards the front door. He didn't give a fuck about his appearance at the moment. He knew he must look like a wreck, but he couldn't find the room to care.

Beginning to unlock the door, Jack realized he probably should have checked through the peephole to see who it was first. _"Too late."_ Twisting the knob, Jack came face to face with his neighbor, Eileen.

"Hi, Jack, honey," she started, wringing her wrinkly hands together, sounding nervous. "I know it's late, but I heard some weird banging on the walls. Is everything alright?" Eileen, or Ms. Pennyworth, as she had Jack call her, was a completely stereotypical nosy neighbor. And little noise had her worried, and on occasion, she had even called the cops on Jack due to his yelling while recording.

"Oh…" Jack cleared his throat. "Yeah. I was just, uh, cleaning the bathroom and I fell in the tub?" He winced. His pitch rose at the end of that, making it sound more like a question than a statement.

Luckily, Eileen bought it and laughed. "Is that all that was? You certainly look like you've been through something," she sneered, giving Jack a once over on his appearance. "You better be more careful, young sir. Try not to be so loud next time, alright?"

"Sure thing." Jack's grip on the door tightened. He resisted the urge to punch her in the face. "Have a nice night."

"You too, dear!" Eileen gave him a fake smile before departing.

Jack grumbles and closed the door, leaning heavily against it. Now his fucking neighbors were worried about him too? Lovely. Eileen was a total bitch, though, so Jack laughed with dry humor how if he did kill himself, she might be the unlucky one to stumble across his body.

Knuckles rapped on the door behind him again, and Jack sighed. What could she possibly want now? Angry, Jack threw open the door. His yell died in his throat. It wasn't Ms. Pennyworth. He blinked and rubbed his eyes, wondering if the dph had already kicked in and he was just hallucinating. Yet, the figure was still there, looking incredibly anxious and out of breath.

"Mark?"


	6. Chapter 6: Uhhhh,

thank u guys all so much for the kind words of support. i really appreciate it all. 3 ive been feeling a bit better so i managed to write this (on the day of a major presentation haha)

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Chapter 6: Uhhhh,

" _Mark?"_

Jack couldn't believe his eyes. He was definitely tripping, right? There surely wasn't Mark fucking Fischbach standing on his porch out there in the freezing cold in the middle of the night?

"Can I come in?" Mark prompted while Jack stood there like a statue.

"Wh-wha yeah, yeah of course!" Jack stammered nervously, backing up to finally usher his friend in. Mark grabbed his suitcase and shuffled in as Jack shut the door behind him. The two stood there awkwardly in the foyer, Mark trying to catch his breath and Jack trying to control his. Both were unsure of what to say or how to say it.

It seemed like Jack was the one that had to break the silence. "Um, no offense, Mark. But what the bloody hell are you doing here?" His voice cracked, and Mark frowned.

"I came as soon as I could," Mark replied simply with a shrug.

Jack raised a brow. "Okay, yeah. That doesn't tell me anything."

"Well," Mark avoided Jack's piercing gaze, opting instead to look around the dark, bare apartment. "What can I say? I was worried about you."

Jack opened his mouth to reply, but couldn't. He wanted to tell Mark that he didn't have to worry, but his thoughts drifted to what he had done to himself not an hour before Mark appeared at his door. Besides, Mark had taken a fucking plane, several planes probably, all the way to Ireland to visit _him._ It was too late to shoo him away, especially since Mark had gone through all the trouble to get here. Instead of offering a rebuttal, Jack sighed and ran a hand through his messy hair. "Sorry."

"For what?"

"For making you worry."

The silence dragged on, both men shifting uncomfortably on their feet.

"I could, uh, make you some hot chocolate or something?" Jack suggested.

Mark's face lifted with a smile. "I would like that."

"Take yer shoes off and make yerself comfortable, then," Jack instructed, clapping Mark on the shoulder and making his way to the kitchen. As he was grabbing two packets of instant hot chocolate from the pantry, Jack saw a thin line of spiders crawling up the wall. "Oh, no."

"Everything okay?" Mark's worried voice sounded from the living room.

"Y-yeah! Everything's fine." His voice sounded way too shrill and high-pitched to be believable. Huffing, he shut the pantry door, several of the small arachnids falling off the wall from the force of the slam. He stomped over to the stove, bringing a pot to boil. Jack stood there, waiting for the water to boil, intensely staring at it. Yet… It wasn't boiling.

"Jack?"

Jack nearly jumped out of his skin, letting out what he would consider a completely unmanly shriek.

"Woah! Sorry, didn't mean to startle you," Mark said hurriedly, backing up a few steps to give Jack some much needed space.

"Phew! You- uh, gave me quite a fright there buddy." Jack let out a shaky laugh, putting his hand over his wildly beating heart for emphasis.

"I was going to say, the stove isn't turned on…" Mark pointed towards the dial, which was indeed, still off.

Jack wanted to scream at his own stupidity. How was he so fucking focused on watching a pot of water that wasn't even going to boil? What the hell was wrong with him? _Fucking Benadryl._ He let out another nervous laugh, regretting taking all those pills as he turned the knob to high heat. Mark continued to observe him, albeit a little suspiciously. The walls melted around them, the cream dripping like slime and landing on the linoleum with a sickening squelch. Jack honed in on the puddles, which turned a dark, regrettably familiar red.

"Fuck."

"What's wrong?" Mark asked immediately.

The puddles of blood. There were still _literal_ puddles left in the bathroom from earlier that Jack has been to lazy to clean. A bead of sweat ran down his temple. His breathing picked up again. He had to go clean it up before Mark found out. "I need to take a piss!" He yelled, dashing out of the kitchen as if his life depended on it. His injured leg instantly flared up, pain spreading through him and forcing him to limp the rest of the way to the bathroom. "Keep an eye on the water!" He didn't turn back to see if Mark stayed or not, too set on getting to that room as soon as he could.

Somehow he made it to the bathroom, Jack nearly slamming the door behind him. The sharp, metallic stench of blood assaulted his nose, and Jack covered his mouth, gagging. There was so much blood all around him, _so much,_ and he just couldn't take it. His head was throbbing, the room spinning and dripping red all around him.

Jack dropped to his knees in front of the toilet, purging all the pills he had taken. He coughed harshly, hacking up all the little pink pills and bile he had in him. Snot and tears ran down his face, combining with the sweat and forming a disgustingly sticky mixture. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears, and Jack covered them both tightly with a quiet whimper.

"Make it stop…"

He wasn't sure when Mark had entered the room, but Jack suddenly became aware of a pair of muscular arms wrapped securely around him. "Jack. Jack, shhhh. I've got you now."

As that calming tone registered in his mind, Jack lost it. He began sobbing, clawing onto Mark's sweater as though he would vanish at any second. There was no use hiding it now. It was pretty obvious what Jack's secret was, the two kneeling on the black towel soaked through with his blood. His cries sounded so weak and pitiful to his own ears, but it only made Mark tighten his grip on the other. Jack responded by scooting closer, burying his head in the juncture of Mark's neck and shoulder. A strong, but gentle hand smoothed down his green locks.

"I'm here, Jack. You're safe now."

Those words were so incredibly comforting. It was something that Jack had yearned to hear but denied himself. He didn't think he deserved it, hell, he still doesn't. But with the two holding onto each other for dear life, Jack could honestly care less.

Eventually his raw sobbing settled down to mere sniffles. Mark continued running his hand through his hair, and Jack found it oddly soothing. He slowly released his grip on the back of Mark's sweater, lifting his head from its resting spot on the other man's neck. Mark's hand ceased moving immediately, opting instead to bring it down to hold onto Jack's side.

Sniffling again, Jack let out a broken laugh. "Yer shoulder's a mess," he pointed out. His tears and snot were everywhere, and he couldn't help but feel a bit bad for crying so hard on his friend. The friend, who he had practically been straddling for the past ten minutes or so while he had his break down. His laugh turned sheepish this time.

"I can always wash it," Mark reassured with a shrug, and it was just the comforting thing that Jack needed. His hand moved up, stroking Jack's back lazily and affectionately.

"Srry-" Jack broke off his an abrupt hiccup.

"I don't mind." He squeezed Jack's arm tenderly.


	7. Chapter 7: Tabletop Confessions

Thank you guys so much for all your kind comments. I have been doing a lot better, hence a new chapter! :)

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Chapter 7: Tabletop Confessions

A new pot of water sat on the stove, the previous water having long since boiled away. Jack and Mark sat opposite each other at his tiny dining table, both dead silent. Jack's eyes were still red and puffy, but he was glad he wasn't crying anymore. Meanwhile, Mark's eyes were directed at the linoleum floor, apparently finding it a much better option than staring at Jack like he was some kind of freak. Jack wrung his hands restlessly, picking habitually at his nail beds.

"How long-" Mark's voice cracked, and Jack flinched. The other sounded on the verge of tears.

"How long what…" Jack responded, though he already knew the rest of Mark's unspoken question.

Mark's hands formed fists on the table. "How long. Have you. Been doing this."

His heart would much rather leap out of his chest and run away at this point. "Since uh. Since I was fourteen, I think," he spoke quietly. It was weird, saying these things aloud. And to another person, even more so.

When Mark didn't reply right away, Jack finally looked up. Tears were dripping down his friend's face, silently dropping onto the cheap wooden table below. Jack could see he had a million questions he wanted to ask but wasn't quite sure how to. That, he understood. But he was grateful that Mark was holding his tongue. Jack wasn't sure if he could handle a full-length interrogation of 'Why, Jack. Why would you do this'.

"I'm so-"

"No!" Mark cut him off abruptly. "You don't need to apologize."

Jack squirmed in his seat uncomfortably. He felt the need, no, he felt _obligated_ to apologize to Mark. He had no one to blame for his situation but himself. He was the one that had dragged others down with him, which he never intended to do. Especially not someone as kind as Mark.

Now he was the one biting his tongue. He just wanted to break down into tears again, and tell Mark how sorry he was for everything and beg for him not to hate him. Jack wasn't sure what he would do if Mark abandoned him. So many of his past friends had left after finding out how fucked up he truly was. All those he had confided in had left him. Left him all alone. Abandoned him. _Betrayed him._

"Jack?" A warm hand was placed on his forearm.

Jack didn't even realize how quickly he was breathing. Even thinking about Mark leaving him like all the others had made him want to throw up all over again. His breath came out in short, harsh gasps. The tears had started up again. He was pretty sure that Mark had tried to say something else to him, but all he could hear was the increasing sound of his heart erratically beating. His hands began shaking, fingers flexing in and out uncontrollably.

"Don't-" Jack choked out. "Don't…" He couldn't even finish, breathing too hard to form actual sentences.

"Don't what?" Mark had moved out of his chair and was now kneeling at Jack's side, still gripping his hand for reassurance.

The pressure of Mark's warm hand on his arm began to ground him, and Jack gradually became aware of his surroundings. Mark was there, kneeling right in front of him, deep chocolate eyes filled with concern. There were still tears in the corners of his eyes, but he seemed much more focused on Jack.

"Don't leave me. Please." He hated how pathetic he sounded, voice all high pitched and whiny. He was so Goddamned needy. Unwanted. Disgusting. Nasty. Filthy. _Bad._

Mark moved his hand off his arm, and Jack thought, " _Christ, this is it. He's going to fucking leave me,"_ until Mark intertwined their fingers together, giving his hand a fond squeeze.

"Never." Mark pressed his lips against the back of hand and Jack just couldn't hold back anymore.

He leapt out of the chair, metal legs grating loudly on the lino, and buried his face in the crook of Mark's neck again. The other responded immediately, wrapping his large arms around the smaller man, rubbing his back comfortingly as their tears dripped down both their faces. Jack lost all concept of time, too centered on the soothing circular motions of Mark's hand stroking his back and the other man's not-so-silent sniffles. His breathing evened out again, Jack taking deep breaths and inhaling a scent that was completely Mark.

Eventually, Jack broke away with a small chuckle. There were dried tear tracks staining his face, and he had managed to ruin the other side of Mark's shirt. Mark met his gaze with a short laugh of his own, smiling at Jack as though he were the most important person in the world.

Rather than having his gut twist with anxiety, it was filled with an odd, light feeling. Something he hadn't felt in a really long time. Hell, he couldn't remember the last time he had felt this good. The hopeful sensation of love and promise filled his entire being, and Jack beamed back at Mark.

"I think the water's boiling now," Jack commented, though didn't make any move to get off of Mark.

"Yeah," Mark replied, also staying still and keeping his arms firmly wrapped around the other. "Probably."

Grinning cheekily, Jack leaned in and gave Mark a quick peck on the cheek before bounding up and over to the stove, leaving a red-faced, flustered Mark scrambling to get off the ground. Laughing and feeling so much lighter than before, Jack finally poured them their hot chocolate.

He was still exhausted, and it probably wasn't the best idea to be drinking hot chocolate at two in the morning, but Jack discarded that rational thinking as he brought two mugs of steaming chocolate filled to the brim to the table. He set the red mug in front of Mark, who had now returned to his seat, and gave him a soft smile. Mark returned the tender gesture, and Jack couldn't help but grin as butterflies swarmed in his stomach.

As he sat across from Mark again, his stomach settling and the heavy feeling returned. There was still so much to talk about. And he dreaded it. Rather than speaking outright, Jack blew on his scalding cup, much too hot to drink. Mark caught on and did the same with his own mug.

Sighing, Jack pushed his mug aside, not feeling up to drinking it at the moment. "I didn't want to worry you." _Or for you to leave me if I told you._

"Jack," Mark replied, sounding exasperated. "Of course I'm going to worry about you, no matter what happens. I just want you to be happy, and _safe."_

"I was scared," Jack spoke, voice wavering. Mark leaned in closer and placed his hand on top of Jack's once more. "So scared, Mark. So scared that you would hate me. That you would leave me like all the others had."

Mark frowned. "I don't know who left you in the past, Jack, but I'm not them." He gripped Jack's hand more firmly for emphasis. "I'm here for you, no matter what happens."

A single tear ran down his face, and Jack smiled sadly. This was the first time that anyone had promised him this. Had reassured him like this. That even if Jack was depressed and hurt himself, they wouldn't abandon him. "Thank you." He brought his other hand up, sandwiching Mark's slightly larger hand between his.

"Of course," Mark replied with a smile, voice soft and sincere. His face soon twisted into a frown, and Jack's heart dropped.

"What's wrong?" he asked anxiously, biting his lip.

Mark's brows furrowed. Jack decided he hated seeing Mark look so distressed. "I've been meaning to ask you something that I noticed earlier," he said, speaking slowly and deliberately.

"What is it?" Jack demanded, voice rising in anticipation. His heartbeat picked up once again.

Mark looked up, staring deeply and seriously into Jack's eyes.

"Why have you been limping?"


	8. Chapter 8: Trust Me

A/N: This chapter did NOT turn out how I expected it to at all. Oh well. Hope you enjoy regardless!

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Chapter 8: Trust Me

Jack's heart thrummed unevenly in his chest. He couldn't let Mark know how bad he had gotten earlier that night. If Mark knew, he would insist that they go to the A&E to get him the stitches that he most definitely needed. And if they did that, then the doctors would question why he had such a deep cut on his leg in the first place, along with all of those older scars…

"It's okay, Jack," Mark's voice sounded softly from across the table. "You can tell me."

Jack bit his lip. He wanted to confide in Mark. He needed someone he could talk to about all of this and support him through it. The reason he hadn't gotten a therapist yet was because if they knew that Jack was a danger to himself they would take the necessary legal steps and get him put in the hospital. If he were in the hospital, everything that Jack had worked so hard for would practically be over. He wouldn't be able to record YouTube videos anymore. _Then again, you wouldn't be able to record them if you were dead, either._

His leg bounced restlessly, creating an annoying tapping sound on the floor below. Mark glanced to his leg, then back up to Jack's face. Jack simply looked down, unable to meet Mark's eyes at the moment. The movement of his right leg sent a sharp burst of pain through him, and Jack gripped his thigh tightly to keep from making a noise.

"I," he sucked in a sharp breath, and Mark leaned in ever so slightly as though he were about to spill his guts. "Can't."

Mark's brows furrowed even more, if possible. "Why is that?"

"I just can't, okay?" he snapped suddenly, tone surprising both himself and the man across from him. "Sorry."

"It's fine," Mark waved it off, recovering from the shock rather quickly. "And I already said you don't need to apologize. But please, Jack. Just tell me what's wrong. You can trust me. I can help you."

Mark's hand squeezed his ever so slightly, and Jack just couldn't take it anymore. "Fine!" he yelled, violently wrenching his hand away from Mark. "You wanna know _why_ I've been limping all night?" His voice was reaching a new level hysterics, laugh coming out bitter and shrill. "'S because not two hours before you came here, I cut myself! Ha! No fucking surprise there, wot with the state of my bathroom and everythin'!"

"Jack-" Mark tried gently, but Jack held a trembling finger up to him.

"Not. Fucking. Done. Talking," he said harshly. Mark wanted him to fucking talk, well he was gonna get it. "But this wasn't like my other cuts, noooo," Jack drew it out, and he was sure he sounded absolutely insane at the moment. Mark sat there, stock still, mouth pressed in a thin line.

"It was _sooo_ much deeper, Markimoo!" Jack laughed, and he realized that the racing thoughts and excessive speaking was him having a manic episode. Another thing that happened at times. His mind felt like it was moving a mile a minute, and his mouth didn't seem able to keep up. "Yer right to be worried about me! But get this, I don't fucking care about myself!"

"Jack, if you could-" Mark spoke again, and this time, Jack smacked both hands flat on the table. The cheap wood shook from the force, the hot chocolate in their mugs sloshing around.

"You fuckin' asked. So don't you _dare_ tell me to calm down, or be quiet. Hell no! 'M not havin' it!"

His face felt so heated. He was straight up shouting at this point, for no reason in particular other than him feeling so upset. There was a wetness on his face, presumably from tears. His hands balled up into fists, and Jack was shaking so hard he began rattling the whole table. There was just so much pressure building up that Jack just wanted to scream and _scream_ until he actually did wreck his throat and couldn't speak anymore. And _fuck,_ he really wanted to cut.

"Please, Jack," Mark's voice sounded so hoarse, so desperate.

Rather than lashing out again, Jack held his tongue. He took several deep breaths to try and calm himself.

"I just want you to be safe. _Please,_ Jack."

He looked up, meeting Mark's eyes. The other man was crying, face nearly as red as his fiery hair which was a disheveled mess atop his head. Jack didn't know when he had stood up, but he shakily took his seat once again.

"Let me help you." Mark was practically sobbing at this point, but Jack was too out of it to care.

What the absolute fuck was wrong with him? He was yelling at one of his only friends who only wanted to help and keep him safe, yet Jack was being so difficult about it. And now that he had upset said friend, he found he actually didn't care? How could he feel so _unfeeling?_ There must be something wrong with him. He should feel guilty, right? Remorseful? Something of that nature. And yet all Jack felt was the exhaustion spreading throughout his entire being. His limbs felt detached, and Jack couldn't even tell if he were sitting or standing anymore.

He let out a weak, dark chuckle. Dissociation was so fun. So _great._ He absolutely loved feeling like this body he was stuck in wasn't even his, so completely and utterly numb all over. It was great. Such a fun time!

"Please, Jack," Mark begged through his ugly crying. Because yes, Jack knew that there was no 'cute' or 'manly' way to cry. Crying was ugly. It was a nasty human function that showed way too much emotion. "Please let me help you. I don't want to lose you."

Jack couldn't even understand what Mark was saying anymore. He could tell the other's mouth was moving, but his words were lost in a dissociative blur. Jack could do nothing but stare straight ahead, unable to speak. His tongue was heavy as lead in his mouth.

And then Mark was there, kneeling at his side again, hugging onto Jack's middle and sobbing into it. As the feeling gradually returned to his body, Jack reached out with an unsteady hand to pat Mark's head. He ran his fingers through the long, red locks, noting the silky softness of it, and smiled sadly. He liked being here with Mark at his side, _alive._

Making his decision, Jack gave Mark a few quick taps, signaling him to let go. Unwillingly, Mark released Jack from his grip, and the shorter man stood. He pulled his sweatpants down, boxer briefs hiding his modesty, and showed Mark the large wrapping around his thigh. Mark sat back on the linoleum, staring with wide eyes in disbelief. Still moving sluggishly, Jack unwrapped the Ace bandage, the gauze following it, and lifted the edge of his bandage. It surprised them both that the blood started to rush out again. It ran down his leg, the red reminding him of streaming rivers as it flowed out and down. Jack had figured that it would have stopped by now, but apparently the laceration was too deep.

Yeah, he needed stitches.

"Fuck, Jack."

Jack looked down at the other, who was still a crying mess. "Yeah." His own voice was rough on his ears.

Mark averted his eyes from the still bleeding cut and gave Jack a hard stare.

"We need to go to the hospital."

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For further clarification: In Jack's case, he's only been bleeding a couple of hours. The bandage he put on it helped keep the blood in, but it didn't coagulate/clot enough for a scab to form. Hence, when he took it off again, it continued to bleed. I'm definitely not a doctor, but I'm using my own experience with this. In my case, I wrapped it up and over 24 hours later I finally went to the ER for stitches, so I guess it depends? Idk, but hope you enjoyed and are ready for more pain!:D


	9. NOT A CHAPTER: AUTHOR'S NOTE

Shout out to my parents for reading my stories.

Dear mom and dad,

I honestly had been doing better. I still don't understand why my progress isn't enough for you, or why you expect me to tell you every little detail about what I'm thinking/how I'm doing. The reason I was writing TStAfH was to help me cope with some things that happened to me in the _PAST_. I was proud of myself, for being able to write about all of this and say, _"This is what I was like at one of my lowest points. I'm not there anymore. I am past that. I am getting better."_ But apparently, writing "gore" is sickening, disgusting, and so utterly horrible to you.

So thank you, for invading my last little bit of online privacy. And before you jump to the argument that "IT'S ONLINE SO NOTHING IS PRIVATE" like you always do, consider this: It was something that was private to me. I don't care if random people read my work. In fact, I'm proud that people like my writing. What I do care about, however, is YOU reading this. These works were not meant for you. These stories are for people who like these fandoms/relationships and such, and I hoped that by reading some of my work they could relate in some way and talk to me if they needed help. These are the types of things that bring people together; similar pasts and experiences. And for people to be able to message me and say:

 _"Is it really necessary to say I'm crying? All of this reminds me so much of what I attempted to do, of what I tried to do to myself at my lowest points._

 _So I just wanted to say thank you. Thank you for this amazing fanfic, so realistic and so well written. Thank you for bringing up this topic in such a respectuful manner. Thank you for the amazing read, for the feels that you gave me, for reminding me that I will survive all the bad times, just like Jack does. Thank you. There are no better words to be said but thank you."_

That, to me, is amazing.

But still, knowing how you got to this account in the first place by going through _my_ phone, reading _my_ emails, and opening up _my_ account, angers me.

I never felt like I could confide in you for anything. That sentiment has only doubled now. I had been working towards learning to trust you, even though you didn't think so since "I wasn't making any progress", but since you went behind my back and pulled this stunt, I'm not going to trust you with anything anymore. And I'm positive that this is a two-way street, since I know you don't trust me at all. Fine.

I'm not going to delete my account or remove my stories. I'm going to continue writing. So go ahead, read everything I'm writing. I know that even if I tell you not to, you will anyways. Just know that I am absolutely resenting you for it. Every little thing you do to me these days only pushes me further and further away from you. You think I'm withdrawing? Yes, I am. That the gap between us is growing? Yes, it is.

It's because of _your_ actions to me.

Of course, it's not only your fault. I am also to blame.

So sorry, parents, for being mentally ill. I am sorry for being depressed, for having anxiety, for having other disorders that you would deny if I brought them up. I'm sorry that I make you buy expensive medications, take me to expensive therapy, that we're slowly spiraling into debt because of me, and just having to deal with something like me in general. I'm sorry for being so damn difficult all the time. And I'm SO SORRY that I write as a way to cope with things that I've been going through. Though, is writing not a better way than cutting myself? How about blogging?

I honestly don't know what else I can say at this. These are some words that I would have liked to tell you, except that that "little" confrontation on Saturday made me dissociate so badly that I couldn't even speak. That's another reason why I'm posting this here, and not speaking to you about it in person. I can't form the words I want to say during those confrontations. That's also why this note is so long.

I think that about wraps up what I wanted to say.

Don't punish me for this.

Sincerely, your loving child

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Dear readers,

Sorry that this isn't a chapter. A lot of shit has been going on recently (as though you couldn't tell from that insanely long note above).

Just know, _I will be continuing this story._

I will take this note down as soon as the next chapter is ready. I hope you continue to read and offer me support in my endeavors.

Sincerely, FawnChara


	10. The Hospital Part 1: The Worst

Thank you all so incredibly much for all the love, support, and wonderful comments. I really can't express how grateful I am to every single one of you. Thank you for telling me your own stories as well, and I'm so sorry to hear you all going through so much. But the way that this fic has inspired people to stay strong and keep on moving forward is just... simply incredible and inspiring. I know I'm being repetitive, but seriously, thank you.

Also, I left the author's note up. All of the wonderful comments that arose from it really do give me strength.

Here's a somewhat longer chapter as thanks. As always, please enjoy.

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Chapter 9: The Hospital Part 1 - The Worst

The ride to the hospital was incredibly long, yet somehow it passed by in the blink of an eye.

They ended up calling a cab, Jack not having a car and Mark not legally able to in this country even if Jack had one. Waiting for the cabbie had been… awkwardly tense, to say the least. Jack had reluctantly agreed to go to the hospital. After all, he knew he needed stitches. He was just worried that they might lock him up as soon as they got there.

They were surrounded by darkness, the only lights being the ones from their headlights as the driver sped down the two lane road. Jack rested his head against the window, the coolness of it grounding and calming him slightly. He would have loved to see the countryside on their drive, yet at three in the morning, it was still very much dark out. He sighed, his delicate breath condensing on the frosted window. Idly he traced patterns on the glass until a hand was placed gently on his thigh.

Mark gave him a comforting squeeze from his left, and Jack could just barely make out him smiling softly in the dim light. "It will be okay."

Jack smiled back, taking Mark's hand in his and holding on firmly. Their fingers laced together, intertwined in a way that made Jack's heart flutter.

As lights began flashing by them, Jack noted that they finally made it to the city. They were closer to the hospital now. His gut twisted with anxiety as they neared the large, looming building. Jack's grip on Mark's hand tightened with nerves. Mark squeezed back reassuringly.

Arriving, the cabbie brought them to one of the entrances. Jack read the sign. " _Accident & Emergency. Psychiatric Ward."_ He immediately stiffened. He had agreed to stitches, sure, but there was no way in _hell_ he was going to stay at the fucking psych ward here.

Mark thanked the cab driver, handing him some money and the two exited the car. As the taxi drove away, Jack and Mark were left in the cold, quiet night. It was oddly silent for a hospital; the vast parking lot nearly empty, gushing wind chilling them down to their bones, and a faint buzz coming from all the electrical signs.

"Let's just get this over with," Jack muttered, stuffing his hands in his coat pockets. He was already beginning to feel numb, and he knew it wasn't just from the cold.

The two walked side by side towards the entrance, passing through the automatic doors and coming up to the front desk. A young woman looked up, and gave them a well practiced smile. "What can I do for you?"

At this point, Jack had already stopped listening, checking out mentally. He was pretty sure Mark was handling the discussion with the receptionist, which was good because his mouth didn't seem to function anymore. Mark handed him a clipboard and a pen, and Jack slowly reached out to grab it. It was difficult to read the document, all the letters and instructions jumbling together in a blurry mess. He took a few deep breaths to try and steady himself. Jack needed to keep it together long enough to get treated and get the fuck out of there.

Somehow he managed to fill out the paperwork, it mostly asking for his personal information, and then the lady directed them further in the building and down the hall. Mark led the way, Jack following silently and shortly behind. They arrived at yet another desk, Mark speaking to them in words that didn't sound quite right on Jack's ears. He was handed more paperwork, and the two walked over to a row of chairs near the wall to fill it out. As soon as the two had sat down a nurse came and sat on Jack's other side. He glanced briefly at her, before ultimately shrugging and trying to focus on the paper in front of him.

Once Jack had finished that paperwork, Mark got up to return it to the desk. Another nurse came up to Jack, giving him a pitying smile. He bristled up immediately. He didn't need anyone's fucking pity.

"Hello there, Seán."

"Jack," he corrected half-heartedly.

"Alright, Jack. Are you on any kind of medications right now?"

He responded yes, and was then prompted to list out his meds and their dosages. She jotted them down on her own clipboard. Mark returned from the desk, sitting heavily next to Jack and letting out a tired sigh. _He must be exhausted_ , Jack thought briefly. After all, he travelled from California to Ireland, where it was currently nearing four in the morning.

The nurse, who didn't even bother to introduce herself, carried on asking Jack questions. Questions which Jack had mostly already filled out on the earlier paperwork. This was kind of pointless, in his opinion. After that, she left the two alone, and Jack reached for Mark's hand after a moment of hesitation. Mark gripped onto Jack, his warm and slightly sweaty palms a welcome contrast to the chilly, sterile hospital.

Time passed slowly, Jack sandwiched between one of his closest friends and some random nurse who seemed to be guarding him. The steady tap of footsteps made Jack look up at the police officer approaching them. He stiffened instinctively.

"Alright," the man said, standing right in front of Jack to get his attention. He definitely had it. "We're going to change you into these robes, and I need to make sure you don't have any weapons on you. I'll be in there with you. You can put your belongings in this bag, which we'll lock up until you're discharged." He handed Jack yet another clipboard. "Sign here to say it's okay for us to lock up your clothes."

With a shaking hand, Jack signed the form, not even bothering to read it. Mark watched him anxiously from the side.

Jack returned it to the officer. "Let's go," he ordered, motioning for Jack to get up.

Jack's knuckles turned white with the force of which he held onto Mark for dear life. "It's okay, Jack," Mark assured softly. "I'll wait right here."

Begrudgingly, Jack stood and followed the officer down the hall to the men's restroom, dragging his feet the whole way. It was a single-person bathroom, quite large actually, and looked newly redone. The officer opened the door, holding it for Jack to enter, then shut and locked it behind him.

"Go ahead and strip down."

Jack was practically about to explode with nerves now. He had never really been naked in front of others or showed off his scars before, save for Mark barely an hour earlier, and now he was expected to _completely_ strip in front of some man he didn't even know, doing both in the process? Wonderful.

Scoffing irritably, Jack shrugged off his coat, followed by his wooly sweater and handing both to the officer who then stuffed it in a large, plastic bag. He shivered, the freezing air stabbing his now naked upper half. The officer said nothing more, waiting patiently for Jack to remove his trousers. With a small grumble of discomfort, Jack took his boots, socks, and sweatpants off. Those were packed in the bag as well.

The officer gave him a bored look. "I need you to pull down your boxers and show there's nothing hiding in there. Now, would be great," he prompted when Jack merely stood there awkwardly.

Jack put his thumbs in the waistband and hesitated. He'd rather not have the man _force_ them off of him, so with a sigh, Jack gave in and pulled them down. He shook them slightly, proving there was in fact, no weapon hiding in his underwear before pulling them back up. Only then did the officer hold out the robe for Jack to put his arms through. He slipped his limbs through the oversized holes, letting the man tie it behind him. Jack was then given a pair of plain, mustard colored socks and slipped those on his feet.

His bag, now stuffed full of clothes, was sealed and tied by the officer. "You can go back to your boyfriend now."

Jack's face heated, but he didn't have it in him to bother correcting the other. Instead, he opted to head out of the bathroom without a word, fully intent on rejoining Mark. Much to his dismay, Mark wasn't in the chair anymore. Jack felt his heartbeat pick up, and he began taking short, shallow breaths.

"Right this way, Seán." It was a different nurse this time that appeared at his side, an outstretched arm directing Jack towards one of the private rooms further down the hall. The door to the room was wide open, and when Jack entered he heaved a sigh of relief finding Mark sitting in there.

The room was small, but functional in a way that most all hospital rooms are. A large, sterile clean bed was the center of the room, a chair occupied by Mark to its left. There was some strangely beeping equipment on the right side, and Jack ignored it in favor of climbing up on the bed that was clearly meant for him. Jack settled under the thin, cheap blanket, shivering. He and Mark shared a brief smile until a nurse came in.

"Are you boys cold? Would either of you like a blanket?" she asked kindly.

Jack glanced down at the goosepimples covering the entirety of his arms, giving her a shaky nod in response.

"Yes, please, that would be great," Mark voiced for him, being the ever-polite person he was. As the nurse gave them an honest smile and left the room, Mark and Jack were left alone in the silence. The faint beeping of the monitors and the hum of air coming from the vent in the ceiling being the only noise. This time, the two avoided eye contact, both clearly sensing the rising tension and not sure how to break it.

"I'm sorry," Jack nearly whispered, a slight quiver in his voice.

Mark's head snapped up, brows furrowed with confusion. "Why are you sorry?"

"Fer dragin' ya all the way out here with me," he mumbled, tears budding up in his eyes. "This is my fault."

"No! No way, Jack. You can't blame yourself. This isn't your fault. None of this is," Mark replied immediately, reaching out for Jack's hand.

"It is, though," Jack murmured, and he _hated_ how absolutely fucking pathetic and whiny he sounded, but he honestly couldn't help it if he tried. It was his fault for making Mark worry enough to travel across the globe, practically 8,000 km, just for _him._ Jack, who was nothing but a sad little Irish boy, constantly dragging others down with him. He was a nobody, someone who had nothing to complain about in the first place, yet somehow here he was, in the A&E with a gaping wound that was still wrapped up under his mint green hospital gown.

Before Mark had a chance to respond, the nurse from earlier had reentered the room, large, cream colored blankets in her arms. "Here we are! I got them from the warmer, so they're nice and cozy." She sounded so cheerful, filling the room with her loud, sing-song like voice, which was a welcome change from the previous much gloomier mood.

She passed one to Mark, who thanked her, and then unfolded the other and tucked Jack in. He was going to say that it wasn't necessary, but he didn't want to burst her bubble. She seemed genuinely pleased to be there, working in the hospital, in stark contrast to the other workers they had met so far.

"Thank you," Jack managed to say, and she patted him comfortingly on the shoulder before taking her leave. Jack now felt very much cocooned in his new blanket, and the warmth seeped into his bones. He sighed in content. If it weren't for the fact that they were currently in a hospital room, Jack might've taken a nap.

The sound of chair legs grating across the laminate floor made Jack jerk his head up off the pillow. That silent nurse from earlier, who had seemed to be guarding him in the hall, was back. This time, she had dragged up a chair, settling herself in the doorway, presumably to keep Jack from leaving of his own accord. He gulped, a bead of sweat running down his temple and feeling much too warm in the new blankets.

Jack threw the blankets off and rolled onto his side, directing his attention to the television mounted up on the wall. Images flashed on screen, though no noise came from it.

"The volume doesn't work on this tv," the nurse finally spoke up, noticing Jack's confused stare.

"Oh," he said quietly. Great. Of _course_ he would get the fucking room with a broken tv. Of _fucking_ course.

And so the three sat in silence, Mark bouncing his leg uncomfortably, Jack picking at his nails, and the nurse tapping away on her phone. Oh yes. This was just _great._


	11. The Hospital Part 2: The Fun Part

A/N: Hey, everyone!  
Just letting you all know that I'm doing a bit better thanks to all of your wonderful comments of love and support and understanding. Thank you, and please enjoy this longer chapter! :3

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Chapter 10: The Hospital Part 2: The Fun Part

The dull throb in his leg was the only thing keeping Jack awake at this point. Mark had long since clocked-out, snoring lightly in the corner, and Jack felt his eyes drooping shut before snapping them open to try and stay up. The heat from earlier was completely gone, and now, Jack was bundled up and shivering. It seemed as though the other nurses, save for the one blocking the only exit to the room, had had all but forgotten about them. It was just past six in the morning now, and no one had showed up to give Jack medical treatment.

His nail beds were a bloody mess, Jack having picked them down to the very nubs. An infomercial played on the television, advertising some new cooking wear, and to Jack it felt like it was playing on repeat.

When the guard-nurse got up to move out of the way, Jack realized that someone else was entering. Finally, another nurse appeared, giving Jack a plastic smile.

"Hello there. Sorry for the delay, I was on lunch break."

Jack wanted to question if it really counted as a 'lunch' break if she was eating at 6 am. Instead, he smiled back. "'S fine. Glad yer finally here."

"So Seán," she said, moving to his right and beginning to tap away on the computer there, "What did you use to cut?"

He almost choked on his breath, surprised at how casual she sounded. "Um… A razor blade," he replied, frowning slightly.

She nodded, typing it up. "So it was metal?"

"Yeah?" Jack wasn't quite sure where she was going with this.

"Do you know when your last tetanus shot was?"

Jack blinked, humming audibly as he tried to think back. "Dunno. Probably when I was a kid, I guess."

The nurse nodded again. "Alright. So I'm going to give you a tetanus shot then, since you used metal to cut. We don't want it getting infected or anything."

"Yeah, no, we wouldn't want that," Jack replied, letting out a nervous laugh.

Moving away from the computer, the nurse rifled through the drawers to the side, fishing out her equipment. With gloved hands she pulled Jack's right sleeve up over his shoulder, and began wiping down his arm with a disinfectant. Unwrapping a sterile syringe, the nurse stuck him directly in his arm. Jack didn't even wince as the thin needle entered his body. This little poke was nothing.

"There we go," she announced, giving his shoulder a light pat to signal it was done. "Wasn't too bad, huh?"

"Not at all." Jack shrugged. He'd faced far more pain than a simple needle.

The nurse, Jacqueline according to her nametag, smiled again. "Now comes the fun part."

Jack raised a brow. "Which would be…"

"The stitches, of course."

"Ah. Yeah. Of course, the _fun_ part," Jack said quietly. In truth, Jack was somewhat looking forward to the stitches. He wasn't quite sure how they would be done or what that procedure would look like, and his gut twisted with nervous anticipation for what was to come.

Mark's deep breathing cut off abruptly as he stirred awake, raising his head and looking around in confusion before settling his worried gaze on Jack. "What time is it?" he slurred, tongue still heavy from sleep.

"6:20," Jacqueline replied immediately, digging out a kit to begin patching up Jack. She then focused her attention on her patient. "Where is the laceration?"

Laceration. It sounded so stiff and professional in an odd kind of way, and Jack stuttered out his response. "Uh- my right thigh."

She nodded thoughtfully before removing the blankets from Jack, who jolted at the feel of cold air assaulting him so suddenly. His robe was lifted to expose his thigh, and Jack briefly wished the cut had been down lover so he wouldn't have to show so much skin. The nurse rolled up his boxer shorts and began removing Jack's makeshift bandage from earlier.

"You did a pretty good job at wrapping this up," she commented idly, wadding up the gauze before throwing it in the waste bin. "It's very clean."

Despite the circumstances, Jack felt a little swell of pride building up until he looked down at his leg again. Now that it wasn't bleeding, Jack could see the full extent of his injury. The wide opening on his thigh that should never be there, revealing the squishy-looking fat that shouldn't be out in the open.

"Oh good God," Mark said from his left, startling Jack as he stood up to take a look at the cut.

His face heated with shame. What the hell was wrong with him? Why would he get himself into this kind of mess?

"Why, Jack?" Mark's voice cracked and Jack winced. "Why would you do this? You have so much going for you."

He shrugged, already feeling numb. He was disconnecting from his body, this body, as though it wasn't even his. Rather than swarming with thoughts, his mind was completely blank, void of thoughts and emotions. The room was freezing, and it was the only thing he could actually feel at the moment.

Mark continued on as though Jack were actually paying attention to him. "So many people care about you, Jack. Why would you do this to us?"

He droned on, and Jack tuned out the noise, choosing instead to look at the nurse who had a needle with a clear liquid. "I'm going to numb the area so it won't hurt as bad, okay?"

Jack managed to nod. He ignored the scoff and not-so-quiet snarky remark of, "He's obviously done worse to himself than what a needle can do," from Mark at his side.

Jacqueline, clearly choosing to ignore Mark's comment as well, began wiping down the area, tested the needle, and stuck Jack in the thigh in the skin surrounding the wound. Jack stared, almost entranced by the whole procedure. The skin puffed up slightly as the anaesthetic entered his body, and as the nurse removed it a bit of clear liquid dripped out from the entry point. She repeated the process, continuing to gently press the tip of the needle into his thigh. Jack appreciated how careful she was being, though he couldn't feel a thing. It was strange, to see a needle pierce your skin and not feel anything at all.

"Alright, now time for the stitches," Jacqueline announced, putting the syringe in the trash.

She made herself busy, prepping the needle and surgical thread before adjusting the light to make it brighter on Jack's leg. Mark sat, bouncing his leg silently and looking off to the side, clearly not wanting to watch the stitching up take place. Jack kept his own hands busy by picking yet again at his nail beds as he awaited the procedure take place.

Finally the nurse took the tiny, curved needle and looped it through Jack's skin. He couldn't feel a thing. Jack watched in awe and raw curiosity as the needle leisurely entered his body, thread following suit, until the ends got tied and the extra cut off.

"You might feel this one a little, I didn't put that much anaesthetic in this area," Jacqueline said, and Jack leaned in a little to get a better look.

The nurse stuck the needle in, and Jack could finally feel it. In that moment, the tiny prick of pain was grounding to him, alerting Jack and telling him that all of this was _real_ and that _yes,_ it was actually happening.

She tied off the final stitch, and clapped her gloved hands together. "All done!" Jacqueline's chipper mood was oddly soothing to Jack.

"How many," Mark choked out, and Jack turned to him. Jack could only see his bright red hair as Mark's head was bowed down. In exhaustion or disappointment, Jack couldn't quite tell.

"Let's see," Jacqueline voiced, moving her finger along Jack's thigh to tally up the stitches. "Seven in total."

Seven.

Jack felt a little flash of déjà vu but shook it off.

"The psychologist will be in here shortly to evaluate you," Jacqueline added, finishing cleaning up and leaving before Jack could ask what the hell she meant by that.

The guard-nurse was still firmly planted in the doorway, and Jack eyed her intimidating figure wearily. Other than her, Jack and Mark were left to themselves and their thoughts. Thoughts, which consumed Jack's mind as he began to panic.

 _An evaluation?! To see if they're gonna lock me up or not?_ He bit the inside of his cheek nervously, only relenting when the salty tang of blood assaulted his taste buds.

He glanced over to Mark, whose head was still lowered. Jack briefly wondered if he was sleeping until Mark's leg began to move again, jerking up and down repeatedly. Jack wanted to say something to the other. A tearful apology, him begging for forgiveness, hell, even talk about the broken fucking tv, _anything_ to break the horrible silence. Luckily, or unluckily, Mark decided to break it.

"Why, Jack?" Though it was only the second time he had said it, Mark already sounded like a broken record. "Why the _hell_ would you do this to yourself? There are so many, _so many_ people who care about you!" His wavering pitch jumped up at the end, and the guard-nurse shot him a disapproving look at the noise.

"I'm sorry," Jack mumbled pitifully. He wanted to scream and cry and shout until he absolutely destroyed his vocal chords, yet all he could do was mumble a weak apology. _Pathetic._

But Mark didn't stop there. "Don't you realize how much you hurt these people by doing this kind of shit? What about your fans? Family? Friends? _Me?"_ His speaking rate picked up, gathering in both speed and volume. Jack flinched on the last bit, which was harshly clipped by Mark's tongue.

"This is going to ruin your entire future, Jack. Do you realize how much shit you're in?" Jack would really love it if Mark could stop talking already. Yet the other man persisted. "This is so fucking serious, Jack. If they admit you here, what are you going to do about Youtube? About _anything?_ This is going to go on your record. What happens if you're trying to get a legit job and they reject you for this?"

Jack's eyes filled with tears. He just couldn't take Mark berating him so. He wasn't even sure if the words Mark was saying were true, but it hurt. It hurt worse than any other pain he had faced so far. Much worse than the stitches (which actually hadn't hurt at all thanks to the anaesthetic), _much_ worse than the little prick of the tetanus shot, and by far, much worse than him cutting down to the fat. Those were all physical pains, but to Jack, the emotional and mental stabs from Mark were much more unbearable.

"Why can't you see how much you're hurting others by doing this, Jack. And I'm not just talking about the cutting. I'm talking about the drugs." Jack's teary eyes widened. That definitely caught his attention. "Yeah, you heard me. I know you've been doing drugs, Jack."

 _How the hell does he know?_ Jack wondered, but his defense was only a weak, "Just pills."

"What the fuck do you think pills are?" Mark snapped, standing up unexpectedly, chair clattering loudly against the lino from the sudden movement. His face was reddened with fury, a light sheen of sweat covering his tanned skin. Jack cowered from the other man's tone and actions. This time the guard nurse shushed him irritably. She didn't otherwise seem too bothered by Mark's yelling. "Just tell me, Jack," Mark said, regaining his composure a tad by sitting back down and crossing his legs. "Was it fucking worth it?" A steely quality laced voice, and Jack stiffened instinctively.

If Jack were perfectly honest with himself, no, it wasn't worth it.

It wasn't worth the emotional toll it was taking on him.

Nope. Not worth it at all.

But despite his recent little trials with the diphenhydramine, Jack honestly thought he had been doing better. He wasn't cutting nearly as much as he had in months past. The other day it was only seven. Two months ago his cutting on bad days would be numbered closer to thirty. "I thought I was getting better..."

"How the fuck is doing drugs 'getting better'? No," Mark sneered, letting out a scoff of pure anger. "You have no idea what you're talking about. No fucking clue. Do you have any clue what drugs can do to you? To the people around you?"

No, Jack wanted to say, but he wasn't sure if it would help. He wasn't sure he could speak anymore if he tried.

"Why the fuck would you do this to yourself, Jack." His voice cracked weakly. "And don't even get me started on your drinking problem."

Jack wanted to protest, to say that he didn't have a drinking problem, but that would be a lie. Sure, he liked to drink as much as the next Irishman, but perhaps a little more. He wisely held his tongue. It was probably better for Mark to let out all his steam than to interfere and start a full blown argument.

"God," Mark let out a feeble chuckle, head tilted back. "I'm so fucking angry."

"I'm so-"

"Don't you fucking say sorry to me. Just fucking _stop._ Doing. Them. Don't do them in the first place. Unless you really do want to end up dead."

 _Dead._ Jack wasn't sure if that was what he was trying to accomplish with the drugs, drinking, and cutting, but it definitely seemed like he was heading down that downwards path.

Mark fixed him with a hard, teary-eyed stare. "Do you have any idea how fucking terrified I am for you?"

Jack froze again. Mark's gentle brown eyes were reddened on the edges from the crying. Crying for _him._

"Please, Jack. Don't do this to us. Don't do this to yourself."

The airy, begging tone twisted Jack's heart uncomfortably. He really didn't know. He really didn't know how badly he was hurting those around him by doing these things to his body. He was hurting them. He was hurting them much worse than he was hurting himself in the end.

"Okay," Jack said quietly, eyes downcast to his fidgety hands. "I'll stop."

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Mark's conversation with Jack was based off of two things: discussions I've had with my mom and boyfriend on separate occasions. Let me know what you guys think!


	12. The Hospital Part 3: The Decision

A/N: Hello everyone! Chara here, alive and well. I'm so sorry for not posting sooner. After talking through everything with my mom, I kind of lost my inspiration to write. It was hard, not having the kind of outlet I was needing. Still, I managed to persevere for you guys. All of you are my inspiration. At the risk of sounding like a broken record, thank you.

Please enjoy this chapter (even though I hate it).

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 **Chapter 11: The Hospital Part 3: The Decision**

"Were you trying to commit suicide?"

Jack swallowed shakily. He wasn't sure what he had been trying to accomplish earlier that night, but he knew his answer had to be immediate to avoid suspicion. "No."

The psychologists jotted his response down on their matching black clipboards. It had taken them forever to even get to Jack's hospital room, since they had been busy questioning other patients all night. There were two of them, a man and woman respectively, sitting side by side with dark bags under their eyes from exhaustion. Still, they kept a professional front. They were situated in such a way as though cornering Jack in the room. Mark sat still as a statue to his left, and had, for the most part, stayed quiet through the questioning.

The woman lifted her hazel eyes from the clipboard and focused them on Jack. "Have you ever tried to commit suicide before?"

"No," Jack said, a lot more confident in his reply this time.

And so the questioning continued in a similar fashion, the psychologists trying to determine whether or not Jack needed to be admitted to the hospital or if he could be released and go home. Jack knew that every answer of his was crucial, and would be under the scrutiny under not just one, but two licensed professionals. He needed to be extremely careful with what he said to them. Any wrong wording or response they don't like could land him in an inpatient facility. That was exactly what he was trying to avoid. Jack kept his answers brief and to a minimum, and more importantly, untruthful.

It wasn't as though Jack liked to lie to people, or was even a good liar for that matter, but he absolutely could not afford to stay at the hospital. Mark was right. This would ruin him if he let it. He needed to be strong at the moment and get the fuck out of this sterile dungeon.

"Do you have an alcohol addiction?"

Jack felt Mark's eyes burning into him. "No."

"How about drugs?"

"No." He wasn't sure if he was setting up a convincing facade, but they didn't press him for any hidden answers, so he carried on, trying to make them believe that he wasn't suicidal so he could just go home already.

After what seemed like an eternity of questioning, the male doctor sat back with a sigh. "Alright, that about wraps up our interview. Do you have any input, uh, Mark?"

Mark blinked a couple times, seeming surprised that they would bother asking him for anything. "Uh, well…" he replied nervously, unsure where to start or what to say.

Jack sent him a pleading look. He bit his cheek anxiously, not even stopping when the coppery taste of blood hit his tongue, willing Mark to keep quiet and not say anything against him that could land him in the facility.

"I'm just worried for him," Mark finally voiced quietly, meeting Jack's begging blue eyes. "I don't want him to hurt himself anymore."

"Of course," the man replied. "That's what we want to prevent here. Anything you could tell us about him can help."

"Well," Mark began. "He's been more distant recently."

Jack gulped, swallowing all the tangy blood in his mouth. What the _fuck_ was Mark doing?

The two psychologists scribbled down the new info as though it were the most important thing they had heard all night. More important than Jack's answers, at least.

"Distant how?" the woman asked for further clarification.

"Um, barely answering my Skype calls or texts for one."

Jack seriously wanted to scream. Mark just needed to shut the ever-loving _fuck_ up so Jack could get the heck out of dodge and go back to his apartment and his normal life of making YouTube videos. Mark was the one telling Jack in the first place that he needed to get out of here or else it would ruin him! And now he was just going to throw Jack under the bus in front of a couple of psychologists? Jack's nostrils flared in anger. How could Mark do this to him?

Mark continued talking, describing Jack's antisocial behaviour as of late, his unusual forgetfulness, and even fucking _hinting_ at his drug problem.

"These are serious red flags you're telling us here," the man announced, and Jack felt his heartbeat pick up again.

"Yes," the woman agreed, pushing up her glasses. "Is there anything else you would care to tell us, Mark?"

Jack really wished his eyes could shoot daggers so Mark could keep his goddamned mouth shut for once. Mark brought his hand up to his chin, thoughtfully humming. "No, I think that's about it."

"Alright. We'll be back in a few to let you know what's going to happen next." The two straightened out their clipboards, tucked their pens away, and promptly left the cramped room.

Immediately Jack felt some relief from their lack of presence, but it was soon taken over by his anger. "Mark," Jack breathed heavily, seething. "What the _fuck_ was that all about?"

Mark looked hurt by Jack's overly hostile tone. "I know what I said before, but–"

"But nothing!" Jack snapped, earning a disapproving look from the guard-nurse in the doorway. He couldn't fucking believe Mark. That son of a bitch was saying how this would affect and ruin his entire life yet now he wanted to send Jack away? To lock him up? Absolutely _not._

"Jack," Mark said, sounding surprisingly desperate. "I'm so scared for you. So fucking scared."

Jack felt his heated fury recede like a popped balloon. "I know. You said that before." His voice was scratchy and dry.

Mark sighed, leaning forward in the chair and folding his hands together. "If you are going to continue to hurt yourself like this, then you need to be in a monitored environment."

"I just said I would stop," Jack pressed, annoyance taking place of his previous anger.

"I can't just take your word for it, Jack," Mark insisted, looking at him seriously with those melted-chocolate eyes. "You have to understand."

Jack thought for a moment, chewing on the sore spot on his cheek, choosing his next words carefully. "Then ya have to understand me, Mark. Ya said it yerself, I can't afford hospital time. My YouTube job will go down the john. I need to stay out here where I can continue to work."

Mark's eyes softened. "I just want you to be safe, Jack."

"I know," Jack replied quietly with a small smile. "Yer a good friend, Mark."

There was silence between the two, as opposed to the earlier yelling. Neither was really quite sure what to say or do next.

With a relieved sigh and a muttered " _Thank God"_ , the guard-nurse was dismissed from her position as the two psychologists came back in.

"You're lucky, Sean," the woman announced, using her clipboard to point at the man laying in bed. "You won't have to be admitted today. Though we do suggest getting you a therapist; we even have recommendations if you would like."

"That would be wonderful," Mark breathed out a sigh of relief. Jack tried to push the annoyance of Mark answering for him out of his mind and be thankful that he's able to go home.

"And with that, you're free to be discharged," the other male in the room spoke, a surprising chipper tone to his baritone voice.

"Thank you so much for everything," Mark said, answering for Jack yet again. "Could we get the discharge paperwork?"

Jack sat there, feeling an odd mix of emotions. Of course he was relieved to go home, but on the other hand, was he really _okay_ to be alone again? Mark had to go back to LA sometime, and that would leave Jack up to his own devices once more. Wouldn't he just resort to the same kind of things that brought him in here in the first place? Mind swimming with self-doubt, Jack sat there, quietly biting his cheek again.

Everything was a blur as people moved around him, Mark getting up and grabbing the paperwork, the psychologists leaving the room, and the officer entering and setting Jack's bag of clothes on his bed, giving him a paper to sign.

His hands felt numb as he grabbed the pen and scribbled down his signature. One part of him was aware that the way Jack was feeling and seeing things wasn't normal. _Dissociation,_ it said. He ignored it.

Mark was immediately at his side again, large warm hand being placed on Jack's arm. The heat radiating off of Mark in waves helped to steady and ground Jack, who finally blinked back to awareness.

"What?" he questioned, voice cracking.

"Are you okay?" Mark asked, sounding a little exasperated as though he had already asked this question before and gotten nothing but silence.

"Yeah," Jack croaked out. "I'm just… tired I guess."

Mark smiled a little. "Yeah, me too."

There was a calming silence between the two before Mark patted his arm, signalling the other to get up.

"Come on, let's get you dressed again."

A flood of relief hit Jack as he finally understood the gravity of the situation. He was going home. He wouldn't be admitted into the looney bin today, or anyday hopefully. He would be able to go back home, continue his twice daily video uploads, and everything would be okay again.

At least, he hoped it would.

* * *

Told you I hated it. Sorry it was so awful. Getting back into the groove of writing has been really difficult.

Regardless, hope you enjoyed.


	13. Chapter 12: Return to Normality

**Chapter 12 - Return to Normality**

The door slowly creaked open, the eerie noise sending a shiver down Jack's spine. He was used to his front door being so noisy, yet the situation only made it more creepy.

He and Mark had just arrived back at his apartment from the hospital, neither speaking a word since Mark broke down on the car ride back. It was mostly things Mark had already said before, "Why would you do this?", "what about your friends, family, and fans?", and that sort of thing.

There was one particular comment that completely caught him off guard.

"I don't know what I would do without you," Mark sobbed, tears streaming from his almond-shaped eyes. "I would probably kill myself."

Jack didn't quite know what to say to that. "I'm sorry," he replied, voice cracking. Tears leaked from his own eyes and Jack just let them fall, too upset to keep his composure any longer. "I'm so sorry."

Now that they were back at Jack's place, Jack realized with a humorless laugh how awkward that car ride must have been for the cab driver.

"What is it?" Mark asked anxiously.

"Nothing, just a thought." Jack rolled his eyes. He understood that Mark was worried for him and everything, but he didn't want his friend becoming an anxious mother hen.

There was silence between the two, and Jack shifted on his feet awkwardly.

"So," he breathed, "what happens now?"

Mark sighed. "That's what I was going to ask you."

"I guess," he paused, trying to figure out what the fuck to do next. "I guess we should call the some of the therapists they recommended to us."

With a smile, Mark came up next to him. "I think that's a good idea." He pursed his lips in thought, eyeing Jack seriously.

"What?" Jack asked a little sharply. He didn't like to be under the scrutiny of the other man.

"Is it okay if I hug you?"

Jack blinked. That was _not_ what he had been expecting. "Um… I guess?"

His heart raced as Mark closed the distance between them in a single step. Jack choked on his breath as Mark's arms circled around him and he was pulled against a broad chest. Mark tucked his head into the crook of Jack's neck, raising his hairs as he felt the warm heat from his breath. Slowly Jack reciprocated the hug, bringing his arms up and wrapping them around the larger man. Mark's breathing was so loud in his ear, and Jack soon felt the wetness of tears on his shoulder.

"Please," Mark sniffled, choking on a sob. "Don't leave me."

Jack feel his own eyes gather with tears as his vision blurred. He buried his face in Mark's neck, inhaling his calming scent. They stood there for a while, wrapped up in each other's arms, crying it out and being content just to hold one another.

Finally Jack pulled away, wiping at his stinging eyes. He looked at Mark, molten chocolate eyes equally red, and the two laughed. This time their tears were from laughter.

"Alright," Jack sighed, trying to quell his laughter.

"Alright," Mark agreed.

"Let's get shit done."

* * *

Jack went to the bathroom to clean up while Mark started calling the list of therapists to try and find a match for Jack. When he cracked open the door to the washroom, Jack gagged at the stench.

There was blood everywhere. The black towel on the ground was spotted with crusting brown. The toilet was filled with Jack's vomit and dissolving little pink pills, still unflushed from the night before.

It was an absolute mess.

Refusing to look at the contents in the toilet, Jack quickly flushed it. He picked up the towel and threw it in the trash. It was ruined, and there was certainly no point in keeping it. He then got to work scrubbing the bloodstains from the blue carpet, using hydrogen peroxide to get the dark brown stains out. He then scrubbed the toilet bowl, wiped the dried blood off the walls, and dusted the countertops.

One part of him realized that he was getting a little _too_ into cleaning, but it was good for him to have something to focus on and keep busy with.

When he finished, Jack wiped his forehead and let out a satisfied sigh. The bathroom now reeked overwhelmingly of cleaning agents, but it was better than blood and vomit. He kneels there, on the dirtied and forever stained rug in his bathroom, satisfaction melting into a frown. Now that he finished with this, he had to get ready to record.

Jack wasn't quite sure if he could do it.

Sure he had been able to fake things before, albeit not too well or perfectly, but he had faked videos nonetheless. On bad days where Jack would rather just crawl back into bed, he had slapped his cheeks and forced a smile for his fans. Most of them couldn't even tell the difference.

But now, Jack was in an extremely weakened state. Mentally, he felt as though everything were just a bad dream and that none of this were real. As though he were trapped in a nightmare.

Perhaps a bit of pain would wake him up…

Jack shook his head, reaching out for the counter to steady himself.

Even if all of this were fake, could pain really wake him up?

 _Only one way to find out._

Jack scrambled up off the floor, heading to his bedroom with slight hesitation. Grabbing his wallet, Jack truffled through it until his fingers found purchase on the cold steel blade of his razor. He let the object lie flat on his open palm, observing the way the light bounced and reflected off of it before marching back out to the bathroom.

Right as he was about to enter, a figure blocked his path.

Fuck.

He forgot about Mark.

"What are you doing?" Mark asked slowly, an edge to his voice.

"Nothing," Jack replied a bit too quickly to be believable.

With a disappointed sigh, Mark held out his hand. "Give it to me." His tone left no room for debate.

Jack narrowed his eyes. This was _his_ fucking house. Mark had no control over him. He opened his mouth to snap a reply, but his retort died in his throat upon seeing Mark's expression.

"Please. Don't do this, Jack."

He huffed irritably, anger dissolving into annoyance. Jack shuffles over to the other man, slapping the blades down in his waiting palm and shoving past him.

"Jack-" Mark started, but the green haired man was already heading down the hall.

Jack turned, fixing him with a dirty look. "Not. Fuckin. Now."

"Alright," Mark relented, putting his free hand up in defense. Jack didn't miss how the other tightened instinctively around the surrendered blade.

 _Whatever. It's not like I don't have more blades._ Rolling his eyes, Jack turned his back on the other and headed towards the kitchen, fully intent on making himself a meal to get his mind off of things. He opened the fridge, inspecting his ingredients, before shutting it again with a tired sigh. He could make omelets, but the effort that went into making them just wasn't worth it at the moment. Besides, he had recording to do.

Moving on autopilot, Jack moved towards his recording room before getting his path blocked yet again. "What, Mark?" he snapped, getting tired of being so restricted in his own home, even though he knew deep down how worried the other was for him.

"You really should eat something," Mark said seriously, eyeing Jack up and down.

Jack crossed his arms like a petulant child. "Not hungry."

Mark frowned. "I'll make you something," he offered. "Just name it."

A mix of emotions swirled through Jack's belly, most prominent being anger. He knew Mark cared for him and wanted to keep him healthy and safe. Yet his constant hovering wasn't helping at all. It made Jack feel like a child again being mothered by someone who acted like they knew more than he did. And since he wasn't going to admit how badly he needed it, defiance rose up in him like a flooding room.

"I'll eat after I record," Jack told him simply, voice low and void of emotion. He watched Mark shiver from his tone before shutting his office door in the other's face.

Alone again, Jack leaned against the door for a brief moment, sighing out in pure exhaustion. It had been an extremely long night, for him and Mark both, but there was no time to rest. He had to get recording, lest his next video be late and arouse suspicion with his fans.

Sitting heavily in his green swivel chair, Jack began clicking away at his desktop. He needed a game to play, one that he could barely focus on and somehow still make somewhat decent content. Immediately he clicked on _Happy Wheels_ and began booting it up. He could use a bit of senselessly violent gameplay to get back into the groove of things.

* * *

Somehow, Jack managed to get his videos up on time. His first one of his final _Happy Wheels_ videos, and the other a collab with Mark. He allowed his friend to use his recording space to make his own videos, Mark thanking him sincerely with a heartwarming smile.

Their collaboration video of _Who's Your Daddy?_ had helped to ease some of the tension between the two. It was good for the both of them to relax and game, no matter how silly or pointless the game was.

Besides, the game gave Jack plenty of leeway to call Mark something he'd always secretly wanted to.

"Daddy, no!"

Jack laughed out as Mark's character picked him up with the baby grabber, carrying him away from the oven to safety.

Mark's vlog he made earlier that day had exploded with views and comments. He started out explaining that his recording setup may be different for a while (never specifying exactly how long) since he would be staying with Jack. He then went on to say how excited he was to be here in Ireland, and how he would make the most out of his time here with Jack (again, he never said how long that time may be).

"How long're ya staying here anyways?" Jack asked curiously after the older finished recording.

"As long as I need to," Mark had answered cryptically, earning a frown from the younger.

All of Mark's social media accounts were flooded with comments, most asking why he went to stay with Jack without giving any prior notice. Others were simply the shippers approving of the new arrangement, saying "Septiplier away!1".

Some had gotten the reason behind the visit spot on, though Mark and Jack would never tell.

 _Did u go to ireland to take care of jack? Pls make sure hes okay. We're all very worried._

 _Im glad ur visiting jack rn. He needs all the support he can get._

 _please take care of jack. im so scared for him._

Sifting through these comments had left Jack feeling more than a bit unsettled.

Was he being _that_ obvious in his videos? He had thought he was doing a somewhat okay job at pretending, but there was only so much he could do. _I guess the vlog I made was pointless, then,_ Jack realized with a sigh. It had taken so much out of him to straight up lie to his fans and act like everything was fine when it wasn't.

Shoving these thoughts to the back of his mind, Jack continued changing into his pajamas. His stomach let out a low gurgle, and his hand reached up to squeeze at his nearly sunken-in abdomen.

He hadn't eaten anything that day.

Jack had figured it better to focus on his work than to actually take care of himself, and that's exactly what he did. But now, the hunger was beginning to be a bit too much. Besides, he didn't want to go to bed on an empty stomach. It's likely he wouldn't be able to sleep much with everything that's happened, and he'd rather not lie there awake, stomach growling all night.

He stalked out to the living room, finding Mark scrolling through his own Twitter feed. His back was to him, and Jack took a moment to observe the other. Mark was sitting there so calmly, though Jack could tell by the tension in his shoulders that he was still on edge.

"I'm hungry," Jack voiced quietly, giving Mark a start.

"Christ, you scared me, Jack," he laughed nervously, shutting his laptop and setting it on the coffee table. "Do you, uh, want anything to eat?"

Jack nodded minutely, moving to sit next to Mark on the sofa. His stomach growled again, begging for food, but he was just so _exhausted._ With a yawn, Jack leaned his upper body against Mark, who stiffened at the contact before relaxing again. Jack snuggled up into Mark's side, an arm being brought up to wrap around his shoulders. He let out a content sigh, feeling his breathing slow.

"We should eat something," Mark nearly whispered, as though afraid to break the moment.

"Yeah," Jack whispered back, though neither made any move to get up.

Instead, Mark tightened his grip on Jack's shoulders and placed a gentle kiss to the top of the younger's head.

Jack smiled before drifting off, feeling perfectly relaxed against his friend.


	14. Chapter 13: Just a Dream

A/N: So. There's a lot of weird shit in this chapter (tw for eating disorders), but at least it's longer! Some of you may not like it, though. Please proceed with caution.

* * *

 **Chapter 13: Just a Dream**

Jack rifles through his underwear drawer, finding a particular rolled up pair of plain, gray socks. To anyone else they would just be normal socks. But Jack knows better. He lifts them, letting them unravel until _it_ falls out.

As the blade lay atop his dresser, shining in the moon's light filtering through the blinds, Jack's mind goes blank. It is new, completely unused. _And sharp._ It's exactly what Jack needs.

He stares at his arms then, pale, hairy, and utterly _blank._ He had managed to keep his self harm directed towards his legs, but a small part of him had always wanted to carve up his arms, just to see what it would be like. _Too obvious,_ his mind tells him.

 _I don't care,_ Jack replies to the voice, and he's too far gone to realize that he shouldn't be talking to voices in his head. It isn't _normal_. With a shrug of indifference, Jack grabs the blade and heads towards the bathroom. He's quiet about it, treading lightly to keep from waking Mark, who's still snoozing away on the couch, head tilted back in a silent snore.

Finally in the bathroom, Jack carefully shuts the door behind him, locking it. He definitely doesn't need Mark barging in on him halfway through. Pulling down his pants, Jack looks upon his bare, naked legs and sighs. He really shouldn't be doing this. But at the same time, he _needs_ to be doing this.

He lines the blade up, ready to strike, but pauses. His thighs are already littered with inflamed red lines. After a brief moment of hesitation he directs the blade to his arms instead. Slicing down, Jack makes sure to use just enough pressure to make it bleed. The blood pools up from the cut, so dark and red it reminds Jack of a cherry.

But it isn't enough.

No, Jack needs to go _deeper._

With a frown, Jack brings the blade down, much harder this time. His skin splits open, yellow puffy fat showing through just before the blood bubbles up and covers it, flowing down his arms in deep red rivers. He goes again and again, each time adding more pressure to his arm, each time the skin parting and showing off more flesh underneath.

A wicked grin splits across his face as Jack finally, _finally_ carves up his arm like he's always wanted to. There's some dark satisfaction to be held in that. There's blood everywhere, pooling around his feet and staining his dirty white socks. He can't even see where he's cutting anymore; there's too much blood covering his arm, but he just keeps going and going and _going_.

The room spins for a brief moment, and Jack reaches out to the wall to steady himself. A dry laugh escapes him as he slides unsteadily to the bloodied floor.

Soon enough there's pounding on the door, and Mark's worried voice calling out for him. Everything sounds muffled, and there's this awful pounding in his ears that just won't go away. There's darkness seeping into the corners of his vision, and rather than fighting it, Jack accepts it and embraces the void with open arms.

Jack shoots awake with a start, covered in sweat and breathing heavily. It takes an inordinate amount of time to determine where he is, but the familiar surroundings of his living room eventually click with him. He's seated on his sofa, still wearing the same clothes from earlier. Mark is still snoring to his right.

He shakes his head, letting out a defeated laugh, stomach churning with dread. The second he spots the open bathroom door he lunges for it. Jack makes it to the toilet just in time to empty the contents of his stomach, mostly bile, and then continues to vomit until he's gagging and body shaking as he dry heaves. There's tears and snot dripping from his face, and Jack grimaces.

When it's over, Jack shakily flushes the toilet, strips, and then climbs into the shower. The water is icy cold at first but Jack sighs out in relief as it splashes over his heated body. The cool water washes away the sweat and traces of vomit, but the lingering echo of the dream remains, clinging to his skin and refusing to let go. Jack scrubs at his pale skin until it's raw and red, and then tips his head back beneath the spray, sighing to himself.

That was one fucked up dream.

It had more or less made Jack realize his secret desire: to continue cutting and slice up his wrists like some twelve year old girl begging for attention. Jack scolds himself for even thinking like that. He knows better. He shouldn't be stereotyping people with depression. Besides, everyone deals with pain in different ways. Jack's just happens to be cutting. And drug abuse. And some minor alcohol abuse.

He shakes his head, little water droplets flying everywhere. He should _not_ be beating himself up over this shit. His thoughts continue to race, almost too fast for Jack to keep up with. He thinks about cutting his arms again, and how easily it had been to get to the fat in his dream. Then he thinks about the consequences of having such obvious scars on his arms. For one, he wouldn't be able to wear short-sleeves in public anymore. One part of his mind argues that he almost always wears long-sleeves anyways, but he pushes that nagging thought away. He then thinks about Mark, and how disappointed he would be to find out about Jack hurting himself again.

That thought lingers with him, buzzing around in his mind like an angry bee with no escape.

Shutting off the water, Jack steps out and shivers. He towels himself dry, wrapping the patterned cloth around his waist like always. Unlocking the door and stepping out into the hall, Jack runs smack dab into Mark. He jumps back, raising his hand to his wildly racing heart.

"Jesus, Mark. Scared the life outta me."

Mark grinned sheepishly. "Sorry?" He didn't sound sorry in the least.

Jack was about to reply until he noticed his position: half naked in front of the man he has a crush on. A blush creeped across his cheeks as Jack skirted around Mark and scurried into his room, a laugh echoing behind him.

Once fully clothed, the two migrated back towards the living room. Mark was stretching; obviously his little nap on the couch had done him some harm. Jack felt it as well, his back was aching. He definitely couldn't wait to sleep in his own bed again. They sat on the couch once more, a respectable distance between the two. There was silence, neither quite sure what to say. Light was just beginning to fill the room as the sun rose.

"Hungry?" Mark finally asked, turning to Jack a little.

Jack smiled. "Starving."

And so the two finally got to making themselves some food, their breakfast consisting of cheese omelettes. They sat across the little kitchen table as they had just days before, just this time with less crying and heart wrenching conversation. Instead, they spoke of their plans for their upcoming collaboration videos and about the possibility of Mark finding Jack a therapist.

Honestly, even the thought of going to therapy terrified Jack. That meant admitting he actually had a problem, and consequently having to face said problem.

But for Mark's sake, Jack would give it a try.

One part of him argued that trying to get better for another person actually wasn't a healthy way of going about it, but Jack really didn't give a fuck. He was going to try to get better, wasn't he? Besides, Mark was his best friend and had proven time and time again that he would be there for Jack and that he cared about him to no end. The least he could do for the man was try and get better.

After breakfast, Mark shut himself in the recording room upstairs to make a 'reading your comments' video, while Jack had some alone time downstairs. The food sat uncomfortably in his belly, a heavy and unpleasant feeling spreading through his limbs. He ran his hand over his clothed, fat thigh, healing cuts stinging underneath. He sighed to himself.

He remembered when his self harm first started that he was upset with his body. No amount of dieting or exercise had helped with that. He had always looked at his figure in the mirror with a frown, hands tracing over his curves with disappointment. No matter how many of his friends had voiced their approval of his looks, Jack couldn't help how _ugly_ he felt.

One night when his body dysphoria had been particularly bad, Jack had taken the first sharp object at hand, a pair of scissors, and sliced down on his thigh. The blood had pooled up slowly, not a very large amount, but enough for Jack to realize the consequence of what he had just done.

He had also realized that there was no turning back.

From then on things had progressed, Jack testing out different tools to cut until he was satisfied with how the razor blades worked. A small voice told Jack that he was a _fucking idiot_ and that if he was unhappy with his body in the first place then he would be even more unhappy with it covered in fresh scars. And it was true; the red lines marring his pale flesh brought even more disappointment and harvested more resentment and contempt for his body.

He just stopped caring from that point on.

With the scars crisscrossing his skin, packed so tight together and overlapping one another, it was too late to stop. Even if he did stop harming, he had already marked his body enough for it to not matter anymore. There were too many scars to count. He was already upset with the way his body looked, adding a few more cuts wouldn't change that.

Jack bit his lip. He really shouldn't have eaten that omelette.

Pale blue eyes flickered over to the open bathroom door, mind swarming with thoughts. Should he try purging again? Sure, he had tried purging before, but it hadn't really worked. He had shoved his fingers down his throat, and only managed to hack up spittle. The girls on television dramas had made it seem so easy. The only times he had actually managed to vomit were when he was genuinely sick, like earlier that morning or when he had taken those pills.

Instead, Jack had taken to starvation. It proved much easier to restrict what he was eating then to try and throw it up. His YouTube job with unreliable and unpredictable hours had helped with that as well. Rather than fixing himself meals at respectable hours, Jack had focused on his work and gotten more recordings done. It was one reason why he was so efficient with his unwavering upload schedule.

The dull thud of feet on the stairs snapped Jack out his train of thought. Mark appeared at the bottom of them, eyeing him warily.

"You okay?" he asked.

Jack cleared his throat to keep his voice from cracking. "Fine. Just… lost in thought, ya know?"

Mark gave him a sad smile. "Yeah." He cleared his throat as well. "Wanna go for a walk or something to take your mind off of things?"

Jack kept a groan from escaping his lips. He really didn't feel like going outside on a walk, but with company it might be okay. Besides, physical activity was one of the recommendations to help combat depression. Alone, he would never go on a walk. But with Mark… "Yeah. Sure, I guess."

"Great." Mark grave him a genuine smile, and Jack could immediately tell how much this meant to the other man. He also felt a little guilty. He didn't even want to go out, but agreeing to it was at least showing Mark that he was making an effort to get better.

Rather than continuing to sit at the kitchen table doing nothing, Jack got up and joined Mark outside. The two walked down the street in silence, Jack silently thankful that the rain had let up for today, giving them clear enough weather to actually walk outdoors without needing an umbrella. It was chilly, it still being January and all, and Jack shivered, stuffing his bare hands in his jacket pockets and unconsciously shifting closer to Mark for warmth.

An equally cool hand joined his in his pocket, and Jack turned to Mark with a start. The other man had his head turned away, but Jack still caught the hint of a blush dusting his cheeks. Grinning, Jack gave Mark's hand a gentle squeeze. He got a tentative squeeze in return.

The two continued their walk, doing a few more laps down the road and back again before returning to Jack's apartment. After all, all good things must come to an end at some point, and Jack had some recording to do.

After uploading his next video, Jack joined Mark in the kitchen, where the other man was making lunch. BLT sandwiches, how American. They sat across from each other at the table, flirtily joking and laughing loudly. They were in much higher spirits than they were that morning; it seems the walk had done them both good.

For their second upload of the day, they did a collaboration of _Prop Hunt_ , connecting with Wade and Bob overseas. Their recording setup was a little different, as Mark and Jack sat side by side in a single video frame, Mark playing on Jack's small but powerful PC and Jack on his desktop. Jack rather liked the setup, as it meant he got to sit right next to his favorite person playing one of his favorite multiplayer games. It was a very different change from how they usually played _Prop Hunt_ , since Jack was normally alone in Ireland and Skyped the other three in America, but having Mark right here next to him only made it that much better. His knee bumped up against Mark's under the desk, and the two grinned, knowing that this little bit of contact was only between them, as Bob and Wade remained oblivious.

Finally it was nighttime, and Mark stood at the stove, sticking some frozen fish filets into the oven. It seemed as though he had easily shifted into the position of 'caretaker' during his stay with Jack. Mark seemed determined to keep his friend well-fed and physically active, which Jack simply went along with.

Though as he stared at the fish on his plate, he felt more than a little guilty. This was his third full meal that day, which was way more than he usually ate…

"Jack?"

His eyes snapped up and met Mark's. "What?"

"Aren't you gonna eat?"

Jack lowered his gaze to his food again, which he had done nothing but play with so far. "Yeah," he replied, though he only continued to move his fish around the plate.

"Jack," Mark said seriously. This time he kept his eyes glued to his plate. "Please eat."

He nodded numbly, using his fork to cut off a bit of fish before bringing it to his lips. He hesitated for a moment until finally biting down on the fish. Chewing slowly, Jack eyed Mark as the other then went back to his own meal. He swallowed shakily, guilt increasing as the food entered his belly. He really shouldn't be eating this. But he really didn't want to upset Mark…

Deciding _fuck it_ , Jack quickly ate the rest of the meal, eager to get it over with. Dinner was continued in silence, both men burned out from their long day.

When they were getting ready for bed, Jack felt his face heating up. He knew what he wanted to offer Mark, but it was a little awkward to actually bring up. "You know," he started, Mark's attention shifting to him. "My bed is big enough for the both of us."

Mark scoffed, though Jack could tell by the way he turned his head that his own face was reddening at the thought. "Yeah, sure. Two full grown men sharing a queen-sized bed. Sure, Jack."

Jack shrugged with embarrassment. "Beats sleeping on the couch."

The other seemed to consider this for a moment, before nodding. "Might as well, then."

They both changed into their pajamas, Mark taking the bathroom while Jack dressed in his own room. A knock sounded on the door, and Jack cleared his throat. "Come in," he replied, moving to his bed and pulling back the covers.

Mark entered the room, wearing patterned pajama pants and a tight white tank top. Jack was _definitely_ not staring. He himself felt a bit too exposed now, wearing boxer briefs that showed off his hairy chicken legs _(No, not chicken. Fat, ugly legs.)_ and a baggy t-shirt. He quickly got into bed to hide his embarrassment, pulling the blankets up and over him. Mark joined him after a brief moment of hesitation, climbing in on the opposite side.

Jack switched the lamp on his bedside off, and the two were cast into darkness. The bed was _much_ more comfortable than the couch had been, especially since they had been in a sitting position. But laying in the same bed next to his crush was just plain awkward. He tried to keep his breathing even, relaxing so he could try and get some sleep.

He closed his eyes, taking several deep breaths, in through his nose, and out through his mouth. Time passed, though Jack still couldn't fall asleep.

Eyes opening lazily, Jack sat up and turned to Mark. Even through the darkness, Jack could tell by the peaceful expression on the other's face that he was already asleep. Body moving on its own accord, Jack rolled Mark onto his back and straddled his middle. His hands moved up, coming to rest at Mark's throat.

Tightening his grip, Jack pushed down on the throat in his hands. Mark's eyes snapped open in a panic, settling on Jack with confusion. His hands latched onto Jack's wrists, trying to force the other off. But Jack was stronger than he looked. He merely applied more pressure, Mark opening his mouth and letting out a choked sound of desperation. Mark was flailing now, twisting in the sheets to dislodge the smaller man atop him, but it was no use. Jack held him tight, digging his thumbs into his windpipe. Mark's thrashing eventually slowed, until he lay there, completely motionless.

Only then did Jack release his grip. He was breathing heavily, unwarranted tears leaking down his cheeks, and shaking wildly.

"Jack?!"

He bolted upright, smacking his face right into Mark's forehead. Both men let out grunts of pain, and Jack rubbed his face where he had hit it.

"Wha- what happened?" he asked shakily, breath coming in sharp gasps, twitching and eyes darting around the dark room.

"You were having a nightmare, I think," Mark replied, rubbing his own forehead. "You were calling out in your sleep and everything."

Jack let out an uneven breath. "What was I saying?"

Mark shrugged. "No words, it just sounded like you were scared. Are you alright?"

Jack fell back into the sheets, feeling wetness on his cheeks. If he thought his dream the night before was scary, then this was just plain _terrifying._ Why the _fuck_ was he dreaming about murdering his best friend and crush?

"Hey, no, it's okay, Jack," Mark cooed, scooching closer to Jack who buried his face in his hands and wept silently. "Whatever it was, it was just a dream."

Steady hands wrapped around his smaller frame, and Jack leaned into the embrace, clinging onto the other like a lifeline.

 _It was just a dream,_ he reminded himself. _It was just a dream._

* * *

That's it for now, folks. The intro to Jack's eating disorder and his fits of nightmares. Fun stuff.


End file.
